


Vegemite Sandvich

by Erika_Rex



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, Falling In Love, Friendship, Hunting, M/M, Masturbation, Nudity, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sex, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Vegemite Sandvich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erika_Rex/pseuds/Erika_Rex
Summary: "Everything started with a sandwich. Or a bag of them to be precise."The story of how two men who, initially thought they had very little in common, ended up falling in love with each other.





	1. The bag

**Author's Note:**

> *My own conscience* But don't you have Brave New Update going on? That one gives you already a lot of work.  
> *Me* I know but I wanted to write this, okay? It was supposed to be a long oneshot but you know how Writer me is.  
> *Writer me* Yes, you all know how I am. I like building super-detailed stories from original simple ideas. If it wasn't because of Lazy me, 'BLUser gonna lose' and the second chapter of Sasha would have been a reality by now.  
> *Lazy me* Don't thank me. I'm only doing my job.  
> *Me* You did nothing!  
> *Lazy me* Exactly! ;D

Everything started with a sandwich. Or a bag of them to be precise.

Sniper was almost entering his van, after enjoying a cold Sunday’s sunset, when he spotted Heavy leaving the base with a suspicious bag over his shoulder. The big guy was seemingly heading for the battlefield. That destination was suspicious by itself, but it was even more due to how he was trying to look casual while going somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be going.

If it had been Scout, Demo or Soldier; Sniper would have attributed that behaviour to a prank or a dirty trap they were planning to set up for the battle of the next day. If it had been Pyro or Spy, he would have tried his best to erase that moment from his memory. Those two were involved in very distinctive business yet secretive and yet creepy from which Sniper desired to stay away as far as possible.

But this was Heavy who we were talking about. He wasn’t a prankster or an aloof man. In fact, if Sniper had to confess, he didn’t consider him much of anything. If he had to describe Heavy it would have been as a big dumb meat shield who loved his minigun like a daughter or that’s what Sniper had believed by that time. Being fair, he hadn’t had many conversations with the Russian since the team had been assembled a few months ago and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to having more.

However, regardless of all of that, the question remained:

What was Heavy planning to do?

Sniper should have gotten inside of his camper and forgotten about the whole deal. Following the big guy under the moonlight wasn’t going to be particularly pleasant. Two weeks ago they had changed bases for the incoming winter season and this new location was way colder than what the Australian could easily tolerate, particularly at night.

Nonetheless, Sniper was curious to know. It had been a boring weekend and this was the only interesting event that had happened so far. So postponing dinner for a later hour, he grabbed his rifle and a pair of gloves and trailed Heavy’s footprints into the shyly snowed battleground. He made sure to walk over them to leave as little proof as possible of their new shared infringement. Nor that he thought Heavy would notice but you could never be too cautious with two Spies living in the proximities.

Sniper was glad that some of the tips he had learnt about hunting in sandy environments could be also applied to snowy ones. There was less than one inch of snow and he already hated this cold solid aberrational form of water. If he wanted to keep up his performance, he would have to force himself to quickly adapt to this climate before the real winter caught him unprepared. He wasn’t going to let himself become less than an astounding sharpshooter, no matter how much self-sacrifice and determination it took to get used to this soon-to-become icy hell.

At the first opportunity he got, Sniper deviated from the path Heavy had left behind and climbed to one of his nest to oversee the mountain of a man through the scope of his rifle. Despite the last rays of sun being almost gone, it took him little time to spot the Russian. Heavy was a massive man. He hadn’t been built for stealth.

From the concealment and eagle eye of his snipping spot, Sniper watched how the big guy strode through the battleground with a strange confidence in his gait, as if he was more familiarized with the layout of the area than what the Australian had expected.

The first time Heavy stopped and examined his surroundings, Sniper snorted, believing that the bald simpleton had finally realized that he had no idea where he was. Although, when Heavy pulled out a small bundle from his bag and hide it inside of a bush, in the corner of a building, the Australian started doubting his previous assumption. As the big guy repeated that process a couple of more times on different crannies of the map, Sniper began seriously wondering what Heavy was really up to.

An inquisitive frown prevailed on the marksman’s face until, by virtue of an unusual good angle and the subtle illumination of an emergency light, he realized that what the Russian was actually hiding were sandwiches.

An involuntary laugh escaped his throat. He immediately covered his mouth afterwards.

Heavy was stashing snacks for when he got hungry during battle!

Sniper avoided face-palming himself at considering, even if it had just been for a second, that the fat man had been concocting some kind of elaborated devious plan.

THIS WAS HEAVY WE WERE TALKING ABOUT!

He chuckled again.

However, as he continued observing him, Sniper noticed a pattern. Heavy wasn’t tucking away the sandwiches haphazardly. They were all placed in strategic locations. The sandwiches were being hidden in intermediate areas where no medkit was at close range and there was always an infrastructure nearby where to take cover while eating it. It seemed like the big guy had consciously thought out in advance where he wanted to plant them.

Could those be special healing sandwiches?

Sniper frowned again.

Was Heavy cleverer than he had previously assessed?

It was true that the Russian had a talent for war. As their sharpshooter, Sniper had been able to study his teammates during battle better than anyone. By this point in their contract, he almost knew by heart each one of their fighting styles and while Heavy usually displayed an incredible bloodlust and enthusiasm during his slaughters; he wasn’t as reckless as Soldier or as self-absorbed as Scout. In fact, the big guy always seemed to know the right moment to retreat or to push forwards.

Until now, Sniper had attributed that behaviour to a survival instinct, something intrinsic on the Russian that didn’t have anything to do with his conscious thoughts, but what Heavy was doing today was clearly premeditated.

Perhaps, the fat man hadn’t come up with this idea by himself. Perhaps, Medic had suggested it to him and he was doing the dirty work for both of them. That was a very reasonable possibility but without a map on Heavy’s hands, that meant he still had a decently better memory and orientation than what the marksman considered average.

Had Sniper underestimated him?

For a good half an hour, the Australian followed, with the scope of his rifle, Heavy’s clandestine expedition through the battlefield. Once the mountain of a man seemed to run out of sandwiches and began returning to the base, Sniper gave him some minutes of head start before also walking back to his camper.

In his way back, the Australian pondered about if this little outing had been worth it or not. His fingers were already partially numb and he was trying his best not to shiver, but what he had discovered that night had given him a new perspective about Heavy’s psyche. Becoming too confident about one’s beliefs was never wise so some self-doubt about your own misconceptions was always advisable to keep yourself sharp and alert. He had learnt that in the Outback. The overconfident and cocky hunters didn’t last long.

How much did he really know about his teammates? How sure could he be that what he thought to be true was, indeed, true? Sniper had kept his distance from them, interacting the minimal possible since they had become a team, but as his profession painfully stated, distance didn’t mean safety. He had observed them for hours but that wasn’t a direct equivalent of knowing them. Perhaps, all what he thought to believe couldn’t be applied to them outside of the battlefield.

The Australian rubbed his hands together.

At least, he had gotten something clear from this experience.

He needed better gloves.

\---

On Monday, Sniper caught Heavy eating one of the sandwiches he had hidden the previous day.

The big guy had turned at an intersection with Medic just to backtrack his previous steps a couple of seconds later. This time he had appeared without a doctor, covered in blood and clutching his right side as he dragged a spinning Sasha back with him. He was lucky to take cover at the same precise second that the enemy Soldier launched a corner-peek rocket from the same direction he had fled.

While keeping balanced with one hand his minigun in automatic shooting mode, Heavy reached for his secret sandwich with the other and literally gobbled down the snack in a single swallow. As the freshly produced bolus glided down his Adam’s apple, Heavy’s wounds magically healed and the Russian grinned sinisterly at feeling the pain disappear.

Sniper gave himself a moment to acknowledge his initial suspicions. Those weren’t ordinary sandwiches. Those were healing sandwiches. Very ingenious, Heavy. Very, very ingenious.

Following next, the Australian matched Heavy’s smile and headshot the Pyro, who had tried to flank the big guy while he was distracted keeping the Soldier at bay.

If Heavy noticed the BLU firebug collapsing just a dozen steps from his position, he didn’t give any sign of it. Instead, he stood up and rushed towards the Soldier’s corner with his firing minigun and a very peculiar war cry:

"I am full of sandvich, and I am coming for you!"

Through the magnification of his scope, Sniper could admire, just for the fraction of a second, how, after peeking from his shelter again, the lips of the BLU American became a tense thin line at finding out that the mountain of a man had cut the distance that separated them already in a half. Not only that, Heavy was also charging forwards completely healed from the wounds he had inflicted him a couple of minutes ago and was smiling like a lunatic.

The Soldier didn’t give Sniper another opportunity to try to headshot him. The marksman deduced that the BLU had rocket-jumped away before Heavy and his bullets could catch up with him, because when the big guy finally got to his corner, he pouted in disappointment and yelled at the sky:

“Don’t run! It’s just haaam!”

Sniper chuckled. For a man who wasn’t as stupid as he sounded, Heavy sounded rather stupid.

Or perhaps, it was just his way of being humorous.


	2. The sandwich

On Tuesday, it was Sniper’s turn to eat one of Heavy’s sandwiches.

He hadn’t planned on it. In fact, he originally never had had any intention of eating one but drastic times called for drastic measures.

Sniper had been happily shooting people dead, as much happy as you can be in a war with a stable working schedule, when a bunch of stickies sent him flying against one of the walls of his nest. With his ears ringing loud and little idea of what had happened, he propped himself to his all fours and crawled out of the room. His rifle, fedora and aviators were left behind. No time to pick them up. Nor that he was conscious enough to notice that he wasn’t carrying any of them.

As his senses came back to him, he detected the stench of burned flesh mixed with fresh blood. It took him an additional second to realize that he was the one emanating that sickening smell. However, the overwhelming pain he was also starting to register in every inch of his body distracted him from the odour.

He coughed specks of blood and with the power of sheer will but mainly self-preservation, he pushed himself to limp down the stairs. When he surmised to hear the enemy Demoman taunting him from the room he had just left behind, he urged himself to speed up. He bit his broken lip to contain his whines of agony as he did so. He didn’t dare to take a look at his wounded legs. He kept his stare fixed on the next step, avoiding eye contact with any of his injuries.

 _“One step. Another step. One step. Another step.”_ He repeated in his mind, giving himself something more to focus than the aching pain.

Sometimes, while comfortably resting on the bed of his camper, Sniper still had trouble believing how he had gotten used to this drill, but his instinctive reaction proved that he had.

The idea was to first put distance between him and his attacker. If he was armed and in a decent physical shape, a surprise attack was recommended; if not, finding a medkit was the priority. Calling for Medic was out of the question. He was a Sniper. The fumes of the Medi Gun weren’t meant for him. Once healed and if the circumstances allowed it, fighting became an option again; if the battle sounded too unbalanced in his head, losing his pursuer and moving to another nest was the preferable choice. Revenge would come later.

That was the idea.

The reality was that he usually didn’t make it too far.

Surprisingly this time and against all odds, Sniper arrived at the exit of the building. Holding back tears and the craving desire of curling up in a corner to peacefully die, he continued walking in the direction of the closer Medkit. He leaned on the wall as support, painting it with the colour his blood and shredded uniform shared.

"It's lads like you that give war a bad name! Show me ya have honor, camper! Fight me in a duel!" The wobbling Scot exclaimed from some feet away and cut the air with his sword in a taunting demonstration.

The Australian didn’t turn his head around or say anything that might suggest he was accepting his challenge. Instead, he concentrated on his plan. He chose to stay alive, even if it was just for a couple of more seconds.

_“One step. Another step. One step. Another step.”_

The one-eyed drunk wasn’t going to allow him to reach his destination. Sniper knew that. While he was having fun mocking him, the demolitions expert would let him believe that they still could have a fair fight but when the moment of truth came, he would ridicule him one more time and slain that false hope with the steel of his haunted weapon.

It was then, between that grim realization and the additional rage of his burning helplessness, that Sniper remembered where Heavy had buried one of his healing sandwiches. It was literally just around the corner. If he could make it there, if he could eat it; he might still have a chance.

He lugged himself forwards with renewed tenacity.

“Where’re ya goin’ in such a hurry, lad? To take the pain train station in train town? It’s over here!” The bomb-lobbing wanker pointed at himself and stopped to laugh at his own joke. He loudly gloated over for a long while and after he was done, he took even more time to recover his breath.

But that was fine for Sniper.

Those precious seconds he had just so foolishly gifted him with were exactly what the Australian required to get to the blissful intersection.

_“One step. Another step. SAANDWIIIICHH!”_

At reaching the secret spot, he collapsed on his bloodstained knees and somehow managed to smile as he dug up the heavenly moist snack.

Cheese and ham had never felt so delicious.

With the first bite, his right leg snapped back together to his natural angle and the general pain was partially alleviated. With the second bite, his burn scars completely went away and his uniform rematerialized over his intact skin. With the third bite, he was already climbing up the gutter next to him with invigorated strength. At the last bite, he pulled out his kukri from his sheath and waited.

And waited… And waited…

The alcoholic with aspirations of sword master finally decided to catch up with him.

"Don't fret, boyo. I'll be gentle!" The Scottish Cyclops laughed perniciously but ceased abruptly at turning the corner and not seeing Sniper anywhere around. He frowned confused at not finding his victim laying defenceless where the trail of blood ended.

Now! Sniper didn’t give him time to look up. He killed him with an aerial attack, skewering his kukri through his skull.

The dead body of his self-assured rival hit the snow with a wet thump and proceeded to further stain it with the red colour.

Once at his complete height, Sniper pulled out his weapon from the deceased enemy and cleaned the splattered blood from his face with the sleeve of his coat. He proudly contemplated his handiwork and muttered childishly, imitating the Russian’s accent.

“Sandvich makes Sniper strooong.”

\---

During the regular downtime that Sniper was awarded every match, he debated what to do about the sandwich.

It didn’t feel right acting like that situation had never happened but he was also a little intimidated about telling Heavy about it. By what he had seen, the Russian was extremely territorial with his possessions, even if some of them were nearly worthless. Sniper clearly remembered how, at the beginning of the contract, Scout had pleaded him, full of terror, to let him hide inside his van after “accidentally” eaten some of Heavy’s leftovers or how, from outside of the base, the sharpshooter had also been able to hear the screams of the bald giant when someone allegedly had touched his beloved minigun.

Sniper didn’t believe that basic survival would be an excuse good enough for the human bear and the Australian wasn’t planning on making an enemy within his teammates for such stupid reason.

Moreover, confessing that he had eaten the sandwich meant admitting too that he had known in the first place where it was. It was true that he could come up with a fake story of how he had discovered the stashing spot by pure luck but again, Sniper felt like he was overcomplicating this problem just for a simple sandwich.

The only option left was making a new one and hoping that the Russian wouldn’t notice the difference. However, the Australian wasn’t ignoring the fact that he had underestimated Heavy’s intelligence once and he wasn’t sure anymore with which level of prudence should he act around the man.

In the end, he didn’t get to reach any conclusions because the voice of the Administrator interrupted his thoughts to announce the victory of their team. Immediately after, the special energy of the humiliation round meant for the winners flooded Sniper’s body and he smiled of pleasure at that feeling of that ecstatic electricity.

Sniper stayed a bit longer on his nest, keeping an eye on the battlefield for any BLUs that weren’t already dead. Almost when he was going to pack and leave, he spotted the enemy Spy sneakily attempting to get into the RED territory, which Sniper had to admit, it would have been a smart area to hide if he hadn’t been still behind his scope.

He put an accurate bullet into the snake’s knee, let him grunt of pain, reloaded and shot him through the head.

It was his way of sending a message to his most hated rival:

_“I could have let you suffer. I didn’t. I’m a professional. Are you too?”_

With that business finished, he placed his rifle over his shoulder and got downstairs with the intention of returning to his base.

He didn’t expect Heavy to be waiting for him at the doorframe of the entrance.

His minigun was resting next to him on the floor, like a dog guarding his master, and the Russian was staring at him with piercing eyes. None of that made the Australian particularly uncomfortable, what it really spooked him was Heavy’s evident awareness of his nest’s location and how he had reached the infrastructure without coming across his line of sight.

Sniper cautiously approached him but the man didn’t move from his place, blocking the exit. The Australian had to lift his chin to look him in the face. Being usually so far away from everybody else had made him forget how tall the giant was.

“You ate Heavy’s sandvich.” The Russian said eventually in a flat tone.

Sniper disguised his surprise face with a frown. As far as he knew, Heavy should have been respawning at that time. There was no way he had seen him devouring the snack. No one except the enemy Sniper or an invisible Spy could have seen him.

“Did ya see me eatin’ it?” He responded with apathy, not directly denying it but not confessing either.

“No. But sandvich is gone and Heavy knows it was Sniper.”

That reply confused the Australian.

“If ya didn’t see me, how do ya know it was me?” He spoke his thoughts.

The giant attentively examined him for a long second.

Sniper got the impression that the man was deliberating with himself if it was worth it or not to give a full explanation. He might not have been able to guess what exactly was going on through Heavy’s mind but that expression wasn’t the type of face someone makes when is out of arguments.

In the end, the Russian opted to be frank with him.

“Someone followed Heavy in Sunday. Person walked over...” He made a pause trying to find the proper word in English. Unsure what was the precise term, he made it up. “Heavy’s snow boot marks. Only Sniper and Spy would have walked over Heavy’s snow boot marks. Only Sniper would have eaten Heavy’s sandvich.”

It was Sniper’s turn to closely analyze his teammate.

Heavy had astonishing observational skills. That was very interesting.

Being honest, the Australian wasn’t sure if he would have been able to recognize someone stepping over his snow footprints but the big guy sounded very convinced of his reasoning. There was plenty of room to deny his accusation but Sniper didn’t feel like that was the smart choice to make. Heavy didn’t have any real evidence to prove that it had been him but his hunch was correct and it didn’t matter what Sniper could say, he was already guilty on the Russian’s eyes.

Besides, brazenly lying to him like that would have been an insult to Heavy’s intelligence and Sniper knew better now.

“Okay. I ate your sandwich.” He admitted, holding the mountain of a man’s gaze.

Heavy crossed his arms over his chest, awaiting an apology.

He wasn’t going to get one. Sniper wasn’t sorry of what he had done. A man must do what he must do to survive.

“It saved my life. So thanks.” He sincerely said instead.

What it came next was a couple of very tense seconds of silence in Sniper’s opinion. By the expression in his face, that inhumane mass of muscle was seemingly deciding his punishment. The Australian got tense as he waited for any telltale signs of an imminent attack.

However, against his false belief, Heavy didn’t react violently.

“Make new one.” He demanded simply. His tone indicated that he was still annoyed but it looked like he was rewarding his honesty with utilitarianisms.

The marksman had been expecting to be snapped in half, decapitated with bare hands or thrown against the wall. Thereby, that request caught him by surprise.

“Wot?”

Heavy looked at him as if the Australian was now the dumb one in the room and pinched the bridge of his nose in contained exasperation.

“Sniper makes new sandvich. Leaves sandvich in Engineer’s dispenser. Sandvich must be there for three hours. That is very important. Later, Sniper puts sandvich back to hiding place. Understood?” He elaborated earnestly, gesticulating in each sentence.

The marksman listened attentively, puzzling over the Russian’s benevolent gesture. He had heard the Russian losing his temper for much less.

“Okay.” He nodded.

Heavy stepped aside and let him go.

\---

When Sniper was preparing the sandwich, he didn’t actually take into consideration that it was supposedly intend for Heavy. He just grabbed the first he had on hand in the small kitchen of his van and spread it over two slices of industrial bread.

He followed the Russian’s instructions to the T and incubated the sandwich precisely three hours on one of the emergency dispensers that Engineer had erected around the base. He didn’t believe such time exactitude was necessary but if somehow the sandwich didn’t gain its magic healing effects, it wouldn’t be his fault. It was quite bothersome to have to make the two trips, especially the second one when it was already quite late at night, but Sniper was a man of his word and deep down, he knew he owned Heavy at least that simple gesture.

There was also the fact that he didn’t want to enrage the bald giant for a bloody mere sandwich. There were fights not worth picking. He had also learnt that in the Outback.

At first hour of Wednesday morning, just after the gates opened and they all rushed to the battleground, the Australian took a detour before going to his first nest of the day and hid the wrapped sandwich on the same spot he had taken it from the previous day.

With that action, Sniper firmly believed that his interactions with the Russian would end there.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

\---

It wasn’t until Friday that Heavy was in need of Sniper’s sandwich.

After respawning more times than he dared to admit from unbelievable silent backstabs, the sharpshooter had been forced to find a novel snipping spot. He had gone creative so in the present moment, he was laying down in the roof of the tallest building in the battlefield. The weather was incredibly nice that day and with no wind freezing him to death, this was an amazing position to oversee the whole match.

From distance, Sniper assisted in the successful capture of a point and after finishing off the fleeing enemy Medic, he idly scanned the rest of the map in search of some more BLUs. What he found was a scorched figure, resembling Heavy’s constitution, staggering towards the sandwich the marksman had been asked to replace. The Australian was amazed how in his condition the Russian was still able to haul the hefty minigun with him.

Once there, the big guy leaned against the wall and let his body slid down until his butt touched the cold ground. With an exhausted attitude, he slowly unwrapped the snack and gave it a generous bite without not even bothering to examine it first.

He swallowed with difficulty and as the features of his face healed back to their usual form, a perplex expression of “ _From what the heck is this thing made?”_ became visually evident. The Russian put the sandwich away from his mouth very bewildered and stared at it with a countenance that could only be translated as _“No, seriously. From what the heck are you fucking made?”_

Sniper could only but to laugh at catching sight of his face.

While Heavy curiously studied the half-sandwich, an amused smile lingered from the Australian’s lips. The big guy pulled his finger between the two slices and smelled his smear fingertip. Following next, he shivered and stuck out his tongue at directly licking the vegemite.

Sniper chuckled again. This was priceless.

For a long second, the mountain of a man gave a critical look at the snack and just when Sniper was beginning to believe that he was going to throw it away, Heavy shrugged and finished it nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t stated his repulsion less than a minute ago.

For some reason, Sniper found that more amusing than any of his previous miens.

Finally, without losing more time, the giant stood up and jogged into the direction of the action with his regular blood-lusty attitude completely recovered.

\---

Friday’s match ended in a tie.

Sniper had finished unscathed so with no humiliation round today, he chose to stroll back to the base instead of waiting to be teleported to the Spawn room by the Respawn system. In his way back, he encountered Heavy, who was bleeding from his left arm but it didn’t seem to be affecting him at all.

After what he had seen through his scope that day, the Australian considered taking another route to avoid facing the giant but that would have been impolite and expressly suspicious towards his teammate. For a considerable decent stretch, they walked side by side in complete silence but ultimately, the Russian ventured to speak.

“Heavy ate your sandvich today.” He commented in that particular tone that was intended to be as neutral as possible.

When the man didn’t add anything else, Sniper pushed him to expand his point.

“And?”

“What was sandvich made? Very strange jam.” He immediately replied with an undisguised accusatorial frown.

“It was vegemite.” The sharpshooter said casually.

When Heavy’s expression didn’t evolve, Sniper decided to explain himself a little bit more. Probably, the Russian had no idea of what vegemite was.

“It’s an Australian product made from yeast extract. I eat a couple of toasts for breakfast every day.”

Sniper caught the giant grimacing just for a fraction of a second and after displaying an attempt of poker-face to camouflage his real thoughts, his face changed into disconcerted disbelief. It gave the impression that he was accepting the Australian’s words but he couldn’t begin to comprehend why anyone would voluntarily eat and, more importantly, enjoy that gruesome substance he called vegemite.

“Did ya like it?” The sharpshooter couldn’t resist teasing him.

Heavy faked indifference and shrugged.

“It was okay.”

Sniper found that lie quite acceptable from a bloke who wore his emotions on his sleeve. He chuckled and made eye contact with the big guy.

“Heavy, I saw yer face. Ya can be honest with me, mate.”

At hearing that revelation, the giant snorted embarrassed, imagining the laugh Sniper had definitely gotten in his expense.

So he decided to counterattack.

With a solemn visage, he held his teammate’s gaze for a long second, like if he was going to share his deepest secret, and declared deadly serious with cold eyes.

“I prefer ham.”

Sniper’s mind couldn’t avoid taking in Heavy’s body language first than the meaning of that simple sentence. Clearly a bit daunted by the sudden change of behaviour and the proximity of the giant, the marksman cringed. One second later, he actively processed those three words and stared at the big guy even more bewildered than before.

It wasn’t until the Russian’s lips began subtly curling up in a mischievous way that Sniper realised his teammate was joking around.

And he had absolutely fallen for it.

Sniper chuckled bashfully once at how easily the man had gotten to him and then, he erupted into laughter as he replayed the absurd scene in his head. Immediately after, Heavy roared along with him, impelled by the effusiveness of his reaction.

“I thought ya’re gonna kill me or somethin’. Good one, big guy. Good one...” The Australian conceded, partially regaining his composure.

Heavy, who was still laughing his heart off, slapped his knee in amusement and made Sniper flinched away at the noise. Their succession of actions was restarted all over again and they kept cackling until their rips hurt.

Shortly after they both cooled down to their seemly stances again, Engineer and Pyro would join them and the Australian would push himself into the background of the conversation.

Once back in his camper, he would realize that it had been a very long time since someone had made him laugh like that.

Heavy was a pretty funny guy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you have probably noticed by now, the story will be mostly narrated from Sniper's point of view but Heavy will also have his input when the story evolves.  
> Not much anything else to say.


	3. The Sandwich War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> This chapter wasn't in my original storyline but somehow it evolved into existence. Enjoy!

The Sandwich War that ensued during the next weeks was quite the show to witness.

Being honest, it was bound to happen. Sniper hadn’t expected Heavy’s little secret to last forever but he wouldn’t have ever imagined that it could escalate into such ridiculous matchup between the two teams.

Early during the following week, someone of short intellect must have caught Heavy eating a healing sandwich or must have accidentally found any of the other ones that still remained on the map. Surely impressed by that simple yet cunning trick, that mercenary had decided to imitate it and had brought his own supply of sandwiches to the map. It was unknown if that someone had shared his plan with any of his teammates, multiple mercenaries had independently done the same or simply too many sandwiches had been stashed due to an overcompensating obsession, but by Wednesday, Sniper had spotted half of his team and the enemy team digging around on the snow, on the hunt for healing sandwiches.

Obviously, the men began stealing other people’s sandwiches for a wide variety of reasons but mostly meanness and desire to annoy each other. The grown-up mercenaries would take the sandwiches and hid them somewhere else, foolishly believing that they would remain there for when they privately needed them. The stealing incited some serious grudges between the men and sent both teams into a dangerous path of personal vendetta. They started fighting to protect and avenge their sandwiches, instead of capturing the points, almost as if “Sandwich War” was the new game mode in play.

The situation evolved to a superior level when someone began planting spicy and poisonous sandwiches. Sniper wasn’t sure if that ploy betokened the slyness of a Spy or the immaturity of a Scout. Perhaps, both simultaneously. At not being able to trust the edibility of the snacks, the teams started using the sandwiches as throwing weapons, distractions or bait. It became utter chaos on the battlefield.

And Sniper watched it all unfold from behind his scope.

Sniper watched the enemy Soldier go into a madman’s rampage to avenge his fellow ‘American’ sandwiches. Little he knew his own Engineer had destroyed them at considering them a health hazard for anyone a yard around.

Sniper watched both Scouts pull sandwich pranks on each other, forget where they had hidden the normal sandwiches and where the spicy ones and accidentally eat their own spicy sandwiches. He had laughed his ass off at watching them swallow dirty snow in desperate hopes of alleviating their burning tongues.

Sniper watched their Pyro and Demoman weaponize sandwiches into Molotov cocktails and how the enemy team had reverse-engineered the technique on the following hour. It had stopped to amaze him when they had thrown one to his nest. The smell...

It really befuddled the sharpshooter that the Administrator only cut short their behaviour when more bread began covering the battlefield than snow. Despite her harshness, she probably must have been enjoying the childish enmity as much as him, if she had allowed them to progress until that point.

The whole team received a severe earful that lasted for almost 2 hours and heavy threats were made to prevent similar incidents in the future. A proportional salary penalty was announced and the team was left to dread how much less they will earn that month due to their shenanigans. Sniper was pissed off like everyone else but he had a clear conscience of his active participation. He hadn’t brought the situation to the extreme. He had only replaced the single sandwich Heavy had demanded. He couldn’t get too penalized for that, right?

In one single night, the Administrator’s cleaning brigade made the whole layer of bread disappear. As impressive as that feat was, it made Sniper shivered. If she could make that amount of bread go away in a few hours, getting rid of a dozen of bodies would be incredibly effortless in comparison. After all, they already lived in the middle of nowhere. The sharpshooter took it as a reminder of the immense power behind the voice of the battlefield’s speakers.

The last days of the month went by as if the Sandwich War had never happened, relegating the events of those bizarre weeks into the anecdote repertory of their memorable battles. With the new month, the envelope with the monthly battle statistics was delivered by Miss Pauling. As regular, Sniper took his personal statistics and checked them out on his van, alone. He didn’t enjoy the loud banter and the regular bets his teammates hold. He usually didn’t participate in any of them, the way his Sniper class operated couldn’t be compared with the rest. It didn’t make sense to him to share his scores with them. He wasn’t the sharing or bragging type either.

Sniper was surprised to find out that he had actually performed slightly better than last month. With the change of scenery and the freezing temperatures, he had anticipated a decline in his statistics but that hadn’t been the case. In fact, he had surpassed his previous kill streak and number of headshots in a single life. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The Australian would have like to exclusively attribute that deed to his fast pace adaptation but he wasn’t such an egocentric wanker to believe that crap. The Sandwich War had definitely helped. He had noticed during the event how little he had died. With everyone concentrated on the sandwiches, they had forgotten snipers also existed. It had made his job way easier than usual.

That night, Sniper went to bed with a timid smile, renewed determination and some kind of relieved feeling. He had as policy to never rely on luck but for once, it felt comforting when the circumstances weren’t in cohorts against him. He had had enough of tough circumstances in his whole life. This ugly cold weather wasn’t his cup of tea but he will overcome it like he had done many times before. He firmly believed that now.

During the weekend, Sniper wondered into the base to grab some newspapers to read that afternoon. He might have lived in a van away from the common areas but he liked keeping himself up to date about the general occurrences of the world. He might have looked like it but he wasn’t an absolute hermit.

Once in the living room, Sniper found Scout, Pyro, Heavy and Demoman watching a cartoon show on the television, although the last one seemed to be dozing off more than anything else. The Australian gave them a silent hand wave and examined his newspapers. He selected the ones that were still readable after passing through the hands of all his teammates. Pyro liked to draw on or burn anything paper-like. Just when he was leaving, the team’s performance summary that was pinned on the notice board caught his attention and he couldn’t avoid taking a glance at it.

Heavy’s name had seized half of the categories of that month. Most kills, best ratio kills-deaths, longest life, most captured points, most defences. It was clear that the Russian had also benefited from the Sandwich War. Those categories were usually more evenly distributed between him, Soldier, Demoman and Pyro but on this occasion, he had apparently been the only one to stick to the real objectives. Any salary penalty Heavy might have received that month was going to be more than compensated by those category bonuses. It was curious, in Sniper’s opinion, how despite initially being so defensive of his sandwiches, Heavy had been one of the few teammates that had kept his priorities straight as the conflict had escalated. Good for him, he supposed.

Sniper was pleased to find out that the highest kill streak and the most points in a single life of the month belong to him. It was the first time he had earned those two categories and the first time his name appeared more than once in the scoreboard. He didn’t regularly get the chance to be in there.

As he read through the report, Sniper sensed Heavy’s gait stopping behind him. The shadow of that mountain of a man projected over the notice board.

“Thank you.” Heavy spoke softly and sincerely. There was a deeper context to his words that would remain unknown to the other man.

Sniper eyed the man with a slightly confused frown. He didn’t voice out a ‘Why?’ but his face displayed it for him. Was he thanking him for his own amazing scores?

“Sniper kept sandwich secret.” The mountain of a man said in such low tone that Sniper wouldn’t have thought him capable of it before.

It suddenly clicked in the Australian’s mind. All this time, Heavy had been afraid that he might rat him out. In fear of getting a sanction, he didn’t believe he deserved or just in a pitiful attempt of avoiding his shared responsibility, Sniper could have told the Administrator that Heavy had been the one to plant the first sandwiches. He could have told her that the big Russian had gone into the battleground outside fighting hours while that was supposedly not allowed. By the salary deduction, Heavy might have deduced that Sniper hadn’t done any of that.

For a second, the Australian felt stupid for not even coming up with any of that before. Why hadn’t he threatened him back with that argument when Heavy had intimidated him into making him a new sandwich? Sniper rapidly concluded that he probably hadn’t thought of it before because it wasn’t in his nature. He was a straightforward man who didn’t like playing those kinds of dirty games. It wasn’t his style. Besides, it wasn’t wise to go threatening around men twice your weight he didn’t know anything about.

Well... That wasn’t true anymore. His vision of Heavy had drastically changed in the last month.

He knew Heavy was a grateful man now too. The Russian could have acted as if everything was already in the past but he hadn’t. He had casually stood up from the sofa to personally thank him for keeping a secret that Sniper hadn’t realized they shared. Sniper hadn’t met many men of such thoughtfulness. Regular assassins were usually too proud and aloof for these simple gestures.

 _“Professionals have standards. Be polite.”_ It automatically popped on his mind and it struck him that the sharpshooter hadn’t considered Heavy a professional until now. Engineer had been perhaps the only one in the whole team.

“No worries, mate.” Sniper offered his hand for a handshake and Heavy took his extended hand with a friendly gentleness. The handshake surprisingly wasn’t awkward and didn’t last long. When they pulled back, Sniper confessed to the man.

“I should be the one thankin' ya. I got my highest kill streak during this Sandwich war.” Sniper didn’t explain the rest regarding his statistics. His performance insecurities were personal. Too personal.

“How many kills?” Heavy asked with innocent curiosity.

“Twenty-four.” Sniper chuckled, proud of his achievement, and crossed his arms over his chest with a smile lingering from his lips.

The giant slowly grinned from ear to ear and Sniper saw his eyes light up with unexpected triumph. That was the face the big guy got after getting unexpectedly lucky in a challenging situation. Sniper had seen it plenty of times by now. The Russian turned to the teammates watching the cartoons. The sudden change of volume almost threw the Australian backward.

“Demo!” Heavy yelled at the man, who was slumping on the sofa half asleep. “Sniper has highest kill streak of season! Give Heavy’s vodka back!”

“It’s already gone, lad! Sorry!” The Scottish waved him off, not looking very apologetic.

“ALL?! HOW?!” The 441-pound muscle mountain walked back to the sofa making each one of his steps purposely sonorous. All his body language indicated that he was going to get his vodka back, in one way or another.

Sniper chuckled with earnest amusement and watched Heavy’s indignation explode from a safe distance. Maybe he had taken a leap of faith with the Russian’s professionalism. Maybe. Maybe not.


	4. The hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how much research I did for this chapter. 
> 
> Fauna, flora and weather of Alaska. Flora and fauna of Australia. How to hunt on the snow. How to sleep on the snow. How to build shelter and make a bonfire on the snow. From how long you can hear a shot. How to skin and quarter an animal. Etc.
> 
> I hope I did a decent job for any real hunter reading this.

Since the team had moved to this new base, Sniper hadn’t gotten the chance to enjoy the true colour of the ground. Every time it looked like the snow would make him the favour and completely melted down, it timidly snowed again during the night. By now, a good inch of everlasting snow covered the scenery and Sniper had given up on his wishful delusion. It would only get worse. He had done his research.

During the last month, Sniper had bought new equipment and supplies he never thought he would need back in Australia. He had also had to learn how to place snow chains to his dear van. That had been a very enlightening afternoon but only in the metaphorical sense of the word. The hours of light were getting shorter and shorter. For the first time that he reached to remember, he had turned on the heating system of his van. Nightly temperatures under the freezing point of water had forced him to. Had he stated already how much he disliked this weather?

From the bottom of his heart, he utterly disliked it.

One evening, shortly after the end of the Sandwich war, Sniper lifted his head from the kukri he was sharpening and admired, through the chick of his curtains, the rain of delicate snowflakes. It was 7 PM, dark already, cold and absolutely white outside.

Other people might have seen the beauty of it, but he did not. Instead, it made him feel homesick and miserable.

Trying to cheer himself up with memories of his dry and hot land, Sniper realized he hadn’t gone hunting since arriving here. He had spent most of his weekends in his van or travelling around the area by road. Truth be told, he had taken on a couple of walks through the forest during the first weeks but he hadn’t gone hunting for a full weekend like in the previous base. If he wanted to do so, this was the right time. The more he waited, the worse weather he would get and the less inclination to go out he would have. It was now or never and what a better way to get familiarized with this appalling environment than forcing himself to survive on it for 36 precious hours.

He was going to hate each minute of the experience.

\---

Sniper double-checked his backpack for the fifth time. It could also be said that he fifth-checked it. He usually only re-inspected it three times but on this particular occasion, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. The weatherman from the radio had promised a sunny weekend and Sniper had decided to trust his words. It didn’t matter if that nasal voice with a quirky American accent was right or not, there wasn’t much the Australian could do regarding the weather except being prepared for the worst. However, he wished with all his might that the man’s prediction was spot on.

An hour after sunrise, Sniper got out of his van, glanced at the snowy forest awaiting him, sighed and took his first step towards his auto-imposed challenge.

After two hours of walking through the pure snow, he realized how tedious it was. The layer of snow wasn’t that thick compared to the previous month, but it was thick enough to make a difference in his gait. It was forcing him to lift his feet higher and take shorter strides. Being a considerable tall man as he was, it meant completely changing his way of walking.

Sniper hadn’t noticed this on the battlefield because he usually didn’t walk that much but it really annoyed him now. On top of that, he was constantly looking down to make sure he knew where he was stepping and he was being particularly careful in the areas where frozen rocks might be beneath. Therefore, he was advancing slower than he would have imagined but he had planned his route with plenty of room for delay so he wasn’t concerned at all about reaching the river before sunset. At least, the exercise was keeping him relatively warm. It wasn’t as bad as standing still on one of his nests.

Around lunchtime, Sniper found a relatively small, yet welcoming, forest clearing and took it as an invitation of Mother Nature to have his noon meal. The sunlight generously poured through the area and Sniper smiled at the blue sky that seemingly vowed to remain clear for the rest of the weekend. While eating his snack in the middle of that icy calm, Sniper realized how silent the forest was.

With his own struggle and grunts, he hadn’t pay attention to it before but hardly any birds could be heard. He remembered more activity from his first walks. Or at least, that’s what he believed. He had read that many of the bird species of this climate were migratory but he hadn’t expected such absolute desertion. He understood the birds, though. If it hadn’t been specified in his contract, he would have refused to move to this new base. There must have been other teams on other warmer locations where he could have been sent to. Surely there must have been another Sniper who would have happily exchanged places with him. But here he was, learning about an environment he never thought he would have to suffer.

 _“Perhaps, in a decade or so, I won’t hate it so bloody much.”_ He thought to himself and snickered to his own cynicism.

Before resuming his hike, Sniper set some rabbit traps around the forest clearing. He had caught sight of what he believed to be rabbit footprints and if he didn’t hunt anything by the end of the day, he might get some rodents in his way back tomorrow. He was definitely planning on having tomorrow’s lunch in this spot again. He had to remove his gloves to do tie the traps and after that, he spent the following hour cursing under his breath of how cold his hands had gotten in such a short period of time.

At some point in the afternoon, Sniper spotted a deer of middle size. However, in the time and effort that took him to unstrap his rifle and get into position, the animal became aware of his presence and fled before he could take the shot. Sniper hadn’t had many expectations regarding his hunting this weekend but it was a little more than frustrating to acknowledge how such a relatively simple prey for him, had been able to escape due to his clumsiness in this environment. He grunted and secured his rifle on his back again. He reminded himself that the primordial objective wasn’t returning to his van with a nice catch but to understand better his surroundings so he could improve for the next occasion. That didn’t help to soothe his feeling of amateurism. This snowy forest was refreshing his memories of a young hunter from a more shameful perspective.

A little earlier before sunset, Sniper reached his destination. The river resembled more a stream than a proper river but he shrugged it off. It would serve the purpose of his visit nonetheless. Despite the Australian’s carefulness, he slipped on the ice that had formed next to the shore. Fortunately, his quick reflexes saved him from a sore fall against the icy ground and he subsequently opted for crawling the last yards. After all, he was already on one knee.

To be able to properly refill his canteen, he picked up a rock and broke the fine icy that had crystallized around the border. He didn’t want his gloves getting wet by using his fist. He drank from the freezing water and his gums immediately screamed back at him in pain. He still swallowed without making a fuzz of it. This was just another little inconvenience he was determined to get over.

Sniper stayed there, lying in the snow for a while, observing the forest from the perspective of the ground. The sound of the stream made a beautiful background noise. It was better than the absence of singing birds. After some minutes, he noticed a column of smoke over the crown of the trees ahead, no farther than three miles away. The sharpshooter got a little excited. It had to belong to a local hunter who also was camping outdoors that night. Sniper made sure to memorize the exact direction of the alleged bonfire and stood up to his feet as the sun began setting down.

He contained his enthusiasm as he got out of the treacherous icy shore. He almost fell again in the process but this time he didn’t grunt in complain.

 _“Small strides.”_ He simply reminded himself.

Sniper would have been a liar if he had denied that he wasn’t a little concern about how he was going to spend the night. He had brought a sleeping bag, expressively bought for this weather, but he hadn’t found yet a single sleeping spot that suited his preconceptions. He had expected to find a small cave or a rock elevation where to make his nocturnal nest but he had realized a little late that he probably should have headed up the hill, towards the mountain, for a better chance. He was convinced that this other hunter must have had his own way of setting an improvised shelter and was looking forward to learning from him.

Or her.

Female hunters were uncommon but they still existed. As a matter of fact, the bonfire perhaps belonged to a group of hunters or a local family. He personally preferred if it was only one individual, for social and logistic reasons, but he would adapt to whatever he found when he got there. He always found easier to befriend or kill a single person.

Before it could totally get dark, Sniper got his flashlight out of the bag and pointed it to the ground. Having to walk through that arctic tundra forest during the night might have soured his mood in other circumstances but his new goal kept his mind occupied with plans and theories regarding this unknown hunter. He started feeling hungry at halfway there but that only motivated him more to keep going.

Almost one hour later, Sniper spotted a glimmer of light between the trees, more or less where he had predicted it will be. As he got closed to the bonfire, he discerned some kind of bushcraft shelter behind the figure of what it seemed to be a big man, kneeling in front of an enormous animal. That sight made Sniper smiled a little behind his scarf. That hunting catch was, most surely, a moose.

There weren’t any moose in Australia. He had seen a couple of them during the night along the roads but this would be his first time examining one from so close. If he was allowed by the other man, of course. Sniper wished that the hunter had just started quartering the animal. He would like to watch him do it. Perhaps, even try himself. It couldn’t be much different than a camel, right?

Before taking any more steps, Sniper loosely hung his rifle to one of his shoulder’s side so he could easily reach for it if the meeting went south. He also checked that his kukri wasn’t stuck on its sheath, ready for any undesirable action he might encounter. Sniper didn’t want to fight this man but he might have to. Danger takes all forms and usually comes without warning. You can only prepare for it and hope to react fast and wisely. Another of the numerous lessons he had learned back in the Outback.

When his precautious preparations were concluded, Sniper announced his presence with a friendly tone.

“Wow, mate! That’s an impressive kill.”

He waved at the man to make sure he didn’t look threatening or shady. He knew from experience that starting with a compliment would increase his chances of being invited to join but he got ready to dodge behind a tree in case the man started shooting at him.

The big man lifted his head from the moose he was cutting into smaller pieces and stood up from behind the animal to receive Sniper. The sharpshooter was struck by how hefty the man was. He was almost as tall as...

No... It couldn’t possibly be...

“Heavy?”

“Sniper?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that there are feral camels in Australia?
> 
> Now, you know.


	5. The hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance of how abruptly this chapter ends. I decided to divide it into two because it was getting too long and I don't like chapters of over 4000 words.
> 
> And yeah, I write in British English.

Both men stared at each other, blinking astonished at the teammate standing in front of them. Without consciously controlling his legs, Sniper came closer to the bonfire and confirmed that indeed, it was Heavy. His face was also partially covered by a scarf but as strapping as the Russian was, it would have been impossible to mistake him for someone else.

“What are ya doin’ here?” It involuntarily escaped Sniper’s lips in his befuddlement and he absolutely regretted it before he could even finish the sentence.

“Hunting.” Heavy explained extraordinarily briefly. His face and tone suggested that he was as confused as him at the unbelievable encounter. Sniper appreciated not finding any trace of mockery in his reply. He knew he had asked a very dumb question.

After some seconds of silently processing the amazing coincidence, Heavy felt compelled to elaborate a little more. He also didn’t ponder in-depth about what he conveyed to the other.

“Weather man said that there will be good weather.”

With a second of delay, Sniper chuckled and covered his face at the ironic fluke. Wasn’t peculiar the power of a simple weathercast? The promise of a sunny weekend had brought together, in the middle of this snowy forest, two teammates who hardly saw each other outside of work.

When he removed his hand for his face, Sniper was received by a mildly surly Heavy, glaring back at him. The Russian had evidently thought that he was laughing at his comment. Sniper was quick to rectify that impression.

“I also heard the weathercast. That’s the reason I’m out ‘ere.” Sniper looked Heavy in the eyes with humble honesty and the bigger man seemed to believe him because his frown quickly disappeared from his face.

The silent fell upon them again, only disturbed by the crackling of the flames. Sniper’s gaze jumped between the Russian, the moose and the bonfire. He had tracked down the column of smoke for knowledge and company and had been additionally rewarded with a fascinating catch and the prospect of a delicious steak for his already late dinner. However, the mysterious hunter had turned up to be Heavy. But why should it matter? Why was Sniper hesitating to leave and renounce to everything he had walked for during the last dark and cold hour?

Heavy sensed his hesitation. It was obvious why the Australian had approached him in the first place. Nobody continues walking during the night, instead of setting up a camp, if you don’t have a good reason. At least, nobody who knows what they are doing and he was quite sure that Sniper had plenty of hunting experience.

Heavy could feel that if he didn’t say anything soon, the other mercenary might interpret that as a cue of being unwelcomed and he didn’t want to do him the discourtesy of sending him away. Building shelter and setting a fire when it’s already dark was quite bothersome. That’s why Heavy had left the quartering of the moose for later and focused on his priorities. Moreover, if Sniper agreed to return together to the base, he might also help him carry as much as moose meat as possible. The Russian was a strong man but the animal was too big to be able to transport it all just by himself and he was completely against leaving his kill to go to waste. You don’t throw away eatable food. Never.

“You can join, Sniper. There is...” He pointed at the moose with his knife in hand while he tried to find the English word. He was quick to give up. “horse deer and vodka for both.” He concluded with a chuckle.

Hearing Heavy call the moose ‘horse deer’ made Sniper crack a smile. The big guy must surely have to know that it wasn’t a deer or a horse, right? Maybe that’s how ‘moose’ was called in Russian but Sniper didn’t ask or make a remark. He was simply glad of being openly invited.

The Australian circled around the bonfire, examining in detail every belonging on Heavy’s camp. After his years in the Outback, it had become a well-trained habit while approaching an unknown hunter. Sometimes more truth could be learnt from observation than through words and it was always crucial to keep a close eye on the other person’s weapons.

At plain sight, Heavy seemed to carry a hunting rifle and two knives, a camp and a hunter one. All weapons were unadorned, rural, moderately old but well taken care of. Without testing them by himself, Sniper couldn’t assert the quality but he could guess that they were very utilitarian tools. Nothing fancy or expensive but they surely could get the job done. He thought it suited Heavy’s personality.

Once by the broader man’s side, Sniper’s eyes set upon the dead moose. Heavy had started quartering the animal before skinning it. That told the sharpshooter that the Russian was more interested in transporting the meat than saving the fur. In his professional opinion, the fur wasn’t much worth saving either. This moose must have been considerably elder because his fur didn’t have that density and lustre young animals had. On top of that, it had bled out by a shot in the neck and the blood had already caked over half of the visible side. There weren’t any snow marks of having dragged the animal so Sniper assumed that Heavy had set up the camp around the spot where the moose had fallen dead. The fireplace didn’t illuminate much but he could deduce that those dark stains some yards away were the animal’s blood trail.

At noticing Sniper’s captivation for his kill, Heavy shared with him.

“If I had knew horse deer was this big, Heavy would have not shot it.” It could be noted by his difficulty pronouncing the sentence that he still struggled with the third conditional of the English language. Sniper didn’t even contemplate correcting his conjugational mistake. His statement had caught his whole attention.

“How could ya not know it was this big?” The sharpshooter asked puzzled yet with a calm tone.

“Horse deer was very far away.”

Heavy’s justification planted an image never conceived before in Sniper’s mind. He suddenly pictured the Russian, laying on the snow with his rifle, covered by foliage, patiently waiting for any prey to come across on his little scope. It was an unfamiliar image but it made more sense than imagining him hunting with his minigun Sasha and screaming around like the big man regularly did on the battlefield. It would have been a priceless show, though.

Sniper didn’t acknowledge his own chuckle until Heavy brought it up.

“What is Sniper laughing about?” That frown had reappeared on the giant’s face.

Bloody hell... The sharpshooter realized that he had recently spent so much time alone that he was forgetting how to control his mannerisms again. He knew it was one of his recurrent little quirks. He sometimes could end up talking out loud without even noticing it.

The Australian quickly straightened his face and admitted.

“I had a dumb thought. I imagined you huntin’ with yer minigun.”

For a second, Sniper feared that his teammate wouldn’t go easy on him a second time but the Russian made a little chuckle, picturing the scene he had just described. The sharpshooter instantly relaxed, relieved of how condoning Heavy was. He was rolling with all his excuses.

“Niet, niet. Never hunted with Sasha before. Would not be good for this job.” The big guy made a pause. “But could be funny time.” He replied as if he was seriously considering the idea.

“Just for the record, let me know which day do ya plan to hunt like that so I can join and watch ya from a safe distance.” Sniper requested with a smile and Heavy laughed at his proposal.

An instant later, the Russian eyed the moose with a serious expression and inquired.

“Did you have dinner, Sniper?”

“Nope. I’ve been walkin’ since sunset to get ‘ere.” The truth was that he was famished but he kept it to himself because he didn’t want the other man to think less of him. After all, he hadn’t hunted anything for the whole day.

“Good.” Heavy kneeled in front of the animal but turned his head to Sniper before he could resume the quartering. “Which part do you want?”

Sniper meticulously scanned the hunting kill with the beam of his flashlight and eventually declared.

“I’ve never eaten moose before. Which part do ya recommend?”

Heavy silently pronounced the animal’s name to himself, testing it out on his tongue.

“I like neck meat. Do you want neck meat?” The Russian offered him immediately after, knife ready to cut him a portion.

“Yeah, I’ll give it a try.”

Sniper attentively observed Heavy’s massive hands work their way through the moose’s neck. They danced around in a mouth-watering trance, slicing with expertise, never hesitating where to rest or where to pierce. It was clear that the Russian must have done this a hundred times. Sniper was holding the flashlight over the other man’s shoulder to provide some extra source of light but he had the impression that bald giant could do it with his eyes closed. Before encountering him, he had already started quartering the animal with only the dim illumination of the bonfire. He was surely capable of that deed.

 

“Here, this one is for you.” Heavy handed him a gorgeous steak of red meat, snapping him back to the present. Sniper placed his flashlight between his teeth and accepted his delicious dinner with both hands. God... It really looked good. At this rate, his flashlight was going to be dripping saliva in no time.

“You cook dinner. I finish cutting moose.” Heavy assigned tasks and the Australian nodded in agreement.

A silly part of Sniper felt disappointed at hearing the Russian use the right word to refer to the animal. ‘Horse deer’ had sounded more amusing and for some stupid reason, he was going to miss it.

He left his childish thoughts aside and set down his backpack to get out a set of cooking rods. He had also brought a small grill grate but the fire was too high to use it and he didn’t want to start a second one or ask Heavy for permission to smother down the main one. Sniper kneeled down and set his portion to be cooked. When he was finished with the arranging of the rods, Heavy passed him his own slice so he could do the same for him. Afterward, he sat down on the snow, with his legs crossed and kept an eye on the meat. Heavy didn’t request him to stay by his side with the flashlight so Sniper turned it off and kept it in one of his pockets.

He had been right. The flashlight was considerably wet from its time spent on his mouth.

After a while, the Russian restarted the small talk.

“Is it first time sleeping on snow?”

“Yes. What gave me away?” Sniper responded jokingly. He didn’t try to hide it. He knew that there must have been a thousand hints that gave away his inexperience in this hellish environment.

“New clothes and sitting on snow.” Heavy pointed out.

“What’s wrong with sitting on the snow?” Sniper frowned a little.

“Butt will get wet. Wait one or two hours. You will see.” The bigger man smiled at him mischievously and the Australian stood up shaking his head, not wanting to test his claim.

“Then, I’ll get some green branches as you did.” He announced but he only had time to take a step before Heavy called his name.

“Sniper!”  Or more precisely his class.

The Australian turned around, expecting some additional instructions, but was received by something different.

The Russian had pushed the moose a little away and scooped to one side of his foliage blanket to make space for him. There had been enough space for both of them since the beginning but now, there was enough distance to be able to sit down together without being awkwardly close to each other.

Sniper wavered at the silent invitation. Heavy was being too nice with him considering their few interactions. It had been a long time since someone had been this nice with him without having any ulterior motive. He didn’t trust unjustified niceness.

The sharpshooter squinted at him, inspecting the camp for a second time in search of suspicious clues he might have missed in his previous eagerness.

And then, he saw it.

Their own shadows had been obscuring it but from his current position, it was way easier to spot.

There was a half-buried bottle of alcohol inside of the bushcraft shelter and a quarter of it was already gone.

HEAVY WAS TIPSY!

That fact made the quartering of the moose even more impressive in the Australian’s eyes. He personally tried to avoid using knives while being drunk but the Russian seemed to have no reluctance and for a good reason. It was apparently second nature to him. Sniper was surprised that he hadn’t seen the giant use knives in the battlefield before. Why Heavy didn’t carry knives as melee weapons for the job? Didn’t he know how to use them in combat?

He might have stared at that corner of the bushcraft shelter for too long because the bigger man began wondering what the Australian was looking at and trailed his gaze, searching for the object of his fascination. He pulled out the bottle from the hole with his free hand and held it up in display.

“Real vodka from Russia. Try, try.” He invited him, offering it to him. His face was bright with joyfulness.

Sniper came to sit by his side and took the bottle, examining the label. Indeed, it was all in Russian. He didn’t know much about alcohol, needless to say about vodka, but it looked high quality. He opened the cap and took a sip.

The alcohol instantly burnt his throat in its way down and he could only but to cough at the scorching sensation. It had been a couple of years since he had drunk such strong types of liquors. He had almost forgotten how it felt.

Heavy laughed at his reaction and patted his back in some clumsy attempt to comfort him.

“You can drink more. I have other bottle.” He told him when he calmed down.

 _“Another bottle? How many do you need to get drunk, mate?”_ Sniper thought to himself in awe.

However, he said instead.

“Naaah... Later on, when my stomach gets some food.”

Heavy nodded and returned the bottle to its natural chiller bucket, not before taking a gulp himself. He didn’t even flinch. Sniper could have very well betted that the Russian was drinking water.

After that, they returned to their tasks, Heavy focused again on the quartering of the moose and Sniper took care of their dinner. As he hypnotically contemplated the meat turn brown, a question came up on the sharpshooter’s mind.

“Heavy, have ya been huntin’ in this area before?”

“Ah?” It took him a second to process the question. “Da, da. It is fourth time. Last time, Heavy went to mountain. Saw bear and wolves. Fighting bear, okay. Fighting group of wolves, not okay. Do not want to fight group of wolves again. Area near river is better. Safer.”

“Wait. Did ya fight a bear and pack of wolves in the same weekend?” Sniper inquired, not sure if he had exactly understood what the other man was saying.

“Da, but not here, in Russia. Fought wolves firsts and bear second. If different order, Heavy might have been in big trouble. Made nice towels with wolves and soft blanket with bear.” The big guy explained absolutely nonchalantly as if he wasn’t describing a feat out of reach for most of the mortals on this Earth. Russians were surely on a different level and without needing Australium for it.

“Alright. Now, I really need to hear that story, mate.” Sniper requested very, very interested and Heavy happily indulged him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids, do not drink in the cold and use knives. That feat is reserved only for burly Russian men like Heavy.
> 
> You will see through this story that Heavy makes mistakes at speaking, so if you spot any, it's probably intentional. English is my third language and I personally don't like seeing Heavy forget to use an article but then employing words like 'understatement', 'kennel' or 'smuggle'. I would love to speak Russian so I could introduce literal translations but my personal experience is the only material I have. Heavy's speaking skills will also evolve during the story and I will make humour out of it.


	6. The bonfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves for a little rollercoaster. I'm so glad I split this chapter into two. It turned up to be the longest one until now.

Both teammates amicably conversed about their hunting tales. It quickly turned clear that Heavy had some limitations with his English vocabulary. He sometimes made-up words to substitute the ones he didn’t know and always stuck to short sentences. After the big guy had shared his story about the fight against the bear and wolves, Sniper was the one to continue the talking. However, he soon got the impression that the other man wasn’t completely following him so he made an effort to talk slower and use simpler words for him. He easily noticed how his attentiveness made a difference. The Russian’s concentrated frown melted down into a serene expression and his face began lighting up more often, engaging more in the conversation. 

When the steaks were just how Sniper liked them, Heavy postponed his quartering duties to have dinner with him. As the Australian had previously promised, they drank more vodka together along with the meal. He had to confess that the moose was quite good but nothing exceptional. The old age of the animal might have diminished the quality of the meat but it was still considerably better than the ordinary sandwich he would have eaten instead. He felt fortunate of having encountered his teammate out here or maybe was just the hunger and alcohol talking for him. 

“I’ve brawled alligators, Heavy. I’ve brawled bloody alligators and I can promise ya that the worst damn animal you can brawl is a feral donkey. Not a bear, not a shark. A bloody donkey!” 

“Niet, niet. Worst animal is goat. If Heavy told you story about goat you would not sleep again. Very scary goat story.” 

The Russian shivered as if he was referring to a humongous kraken or a demon from the underworld and they both chuckled together at his hyperbolic body language. Sniper didn’t pry about his particular trauma with goats. Every hunter had their own bizarre animal archenemy that hated with all their guts. Bloody donkeys! 

After their dinner, Heavy salvaged the last of the meat that was left. He had cleaned the animal as much as he could but he knew he would have been able to save way more, if he could have brought the whole beast back to the base. He had taken what he considered the best meat but it still didn’t sit right with him. He examined the butchered moose one more time and finally accepted reality with a sorrowful sigh. There was only so much they could carry the both of them together. He truly regretted taking the shot. He didn’t want to become that type of hunter. He should have been more thoughtful before pulling the trigger. 

Sniper closely watched him through all the process and when Heavy gave conclusion to the task, he helped him dragged the corpse away from the camp. When they returned and sat down again, the bigger man threw him a sack. It almost knocked him over from how heavy it was. 

“That bag is for you.” The Russian laughed at seeing him nearly lose his balance. 

“Bloody hell... How much is this? 100 pounds?” 

“Niet. Around 40 kilos.” He said with a shrug and his lips progressively curled up. 

The two men held each other gazes and for once, Sniper felt as clueless as his European teammates when the imperial system was used as a unit of measurement. That topic reminded him that he had recently read that his dear Australia was contemplating to convert to the metric system in a few years. He didn’t want to return home after his contract was finished and find out that kilometres and litres were ruling his country now. He wasn’t even sure how ‘Celsius’ was properly spelled. 

“40 kilos are 88 pounds. One kilo is 2.2 pounds. More or less...” Heavy simplified for him, waving his hand and Sniper sighed in resignation. This was another challenge for his to-do list that planned to leave for another day. 

With their stomachs full and plenty of vodka to spare, both mercenaries continued sharing their experiences as hunters of completely different lands. As the Russian talked more and more, Sniper noticed that his use of the third person wasn’t as arbitrary as he had thought in the beginning. The bald giant usually referred to himself as ‘Heavy’ when they were talking about work or memories that made him angry or he wasn’t fond of. It was an idiosyncratic way of separating the facets that composed his identity as if the man killing and dying on the battlefield every day was someone else and not him. He also had the suspicion that Heavy was slightly modifying his hunting tales to avoid mentioning other people in them. If those individuals were past friends, family or enemies, Sniper could not tell. 

“What does ‘mate’ mean?” The Russian unexpectedly interrupted him, after he had just used the word.  

“Eh... It’s like... friend, teammate...” Sniper clarified a little confused at the abrupt question. 

“Ah... Okay, okay.” Heavy broadly nodded in contentment. 

“Why do ya ask?” 

“Only other time Heavy saw ‘mate’ word was in Doktor’s bird book. ‘Mate’ meant ‘sex partner’. I thought it had other meaning in Australian but did not know.” 

Sniper put himself on the Russian’s shoes for a second and imagined how the other man might have perceived his peculiar accent. 

 _“How are ya doin’, sex partner?”, “Thanks, sex partner!”, “Good job, sex partner.”_  

Sniper suddenly erupted into laughter. Poor Heavy and his barrier language. It must have been very disconcerting. 

The giant’s characteristic frown invaded his face again and he patiently waited for his teammate to justified himself for the hundredth time. The Australian obviously had to explain afterward the reason for his outburst but the big guy didn’t give it much relevance. He chuckled bashfully and urged him to proceed with his little story about the odd animals that roamed free in his home country. 

As the alcohol began causing struggles in their inebriated minds, Heavy’s English slowly deteriorated. He began making and making more conjugational mistakes and mixing literal Russian words in his sentences. Sniper somehow ignored them all for the sake of the continuity of the narrative and in return, he unconsciously gave rein free to his own broad hand gestures to the point that he might have invented a new dialect of sign language. The bigger man didn’t fall short and also showed his full body expressivity. They accidentally smacked each other a couple of times but that only created another comical situation to laugh at together. 

“Heavy heard many  _gahf-gahfs_  coming close and thought ‘Am in  _neveroyatno_  big problem.’” 

“ _Gahf-gahf?_  Is that a type of bird?” Sniper inquired intrigued. He had never come across with an animal that made that kind of sound. 

“Bird? Niet, niet. It is dog. Dogs do  _gahf-gahf._ ” Heavy explained, surprised of having been asked such a question. 

“Wot? Dogs do  _woof-woof_.” Sniper said more perplexed than he should have been in normal circumstances. 

“Hmmm...” The big man made a pause to ponder about this unexpected conundrum. He exaggeratedly rubbed his chin in thought as if he was cracking an impossible difficult code and all of a sudden, he lifted his index finger. “English dogs do  _woof-woof._  Russian dogs do  _gahf-gahf._  Dogs very smart. Talk different languages. I solved mystery.”  

His ‘solution’ made them both guffawed for a while. There was a frightening moment when the vodka bottle escaped Heavy’s grasp but it had a fortuitous landing and was shortly recovered unscathed by Sniper. After the scare, the two mercenaries needed quite some time to regain their usual breath rhythms but later, Heavy continued with his story as if he had never been disrupted. 

As the hours of the cold night went by and the bottle of vodka emptied, their conversations became more absurd and incoherent. They began using their hands to draw images in the air and made sounds to replace some adjectives. Neither of them fully comprehended how they were achieving to successfully communicate with each other but their stories were getting through to other man. Perhaps, if they had been sober, they would have realized that they weren’t making any sense but from their perspective, they were having the best bonfire party of their lives. 

“Heavy was happy in lake when saw  _ga-ga-ga_  stealing pants. Ran out of water. Clothes not there. Any clothes. Heavy followed  _ga-ga-ga_ , pass through  _kustarnik_  and found army of  _ga-ga-gas_  eating clothes. Not two, not five. Army, Sniper! Big army of  _ga-ga-gas_  looking at Heavy! Looking at Heavy’s man stick! Was long silence and then…  _GAAA!_  Army of  _ga-ga-gas_  ran at Heavy. Full army! Heavy got scared for man stick. AH! Very, very scared! Lose leg, okay. Lose man stick, not okay. 5 kilometers, Sniper! Heavy ran 5 kilometers  _obnazhennyy_! No clothes. No looking back. All man parts jumping when Heavy ran. Foots  _brrr_  from snow. Man stick very, very  _brrr_. So  _brrr_ that thought would lose man stick. Do not run  _obnazhennyy_ on snow, Sniper. Not good idea. Only idea when army of  _ga-ga-gas_ want to eat your man stick. Only idea but not very good idea.” 

Sniper was laughing his head off on the ground and he couldn’t put his finger on how or when he had ended up laying there. He only knew that the pointy leaves of those branches had been used for cushioning were itching against his nose but he couldn’t stand up. In fact, he could hardly move of how tight his body was. He was having breathing problems because of how incontrollable his laugh was but he couldn’t stop himself. That anecdote was the best one so far and it was so damn bloody hilarious. 

Heavy paused his story to contemplate his fallen teammate with an amused smile. He had made him cackle so much that the lanky man had run of air and was making the most singular noises the Russian had ever heard. He couldn’t tell if he was choking, snoring, hissing or the three things at the same time. 

On a closer look, it was definitely the three things at the same time and he was starting to feel a bit worried. 

“You have to breathe, little Sniper.” The bigger man gently shook the shoulder of the other mercenary to try to soothe him down. 

The gesture didn’t do much to speed up the process but Sniper eventually cooled off and awarded his deprived brain some precious oxygen. 

Heavy chuckled in relief at seeing him breathe with normalcy again and patted his arm in celebration. The Australian pushed his hand away with a self-conscious groan and remained there, in the foliage blanket, beholding the Russian’s physique from the lowest angle the floor allowed. 

His gaze became lost on the Russian’s face and he observed his mouth open and close. It seemed like there was more to Heavy’s naked odyssey but Sniper wasn’t listening anymore. With a drunken smile lingering from his lips, his mind wandered away to other thoughts. 

So far, this was being an amazing night. The sharpshooter would have never imagined that he could talk for hours with the big guy and have so much fun despite the language barrier and their antithetic upbringings. He knew that he was being heavily influenced by that marvelous bottle of vodka but seriously, when had been the last time he had connected so genuinely with someone else? 

Since Susan and Paul, maybe?  

Phew… That had been three good years and a half ago and he hadn’t even copped a root with any of the two. They had assured him that they weren’t a couple but he had discerned those little details that suggested that there was something more going one that a regular friendship. He would have made a move otherwise but he hadn’t dared to interfere in what it could have probably been the beginning of something else between the two. On that occasion, he hadn’t gotten his bonfire night with a happy ending and that, on the spur of the moment, made him crave for rectification with the man in front of him. 

Being honest, he didn’t consider the Russian especially attractive. In the Badlands, Sniper had seen the paunch his vest hid and losing a dozen pounds would have surely done the big bloke some good. Moreover, being bald also didn’t help to his image but if there was something the Outback hadn’t taught him was to be finicky. You do your best with what you get. It was that simple. Besides, he wasn’t a bloody model either. As long as Heavy’s ‘man stick’, as he had so humorously called it, was just averagely proportional to his height, it could turn up to be the biggest donger the Australian had ever seen in his entire life. Although, now that he thought it over, without lube, that could actually be a con instead of a pro. Well, it didn’t matter. With such thick fingers, the other man possessed, he was convinced that they could find a way to have a nice time together. 

Sniper was about to convey his indecent proposal when dread invaded his body at the sudden realization. 

WHAT THE HECK HAD HE BEEN ABOUT TO DO?! 

DID HE HAVE A DEATH WISH?! 

This wasn’t a random hunter! This wasn’t a man who had casually crossed paths with him and would never encounter again after they parted away.  

This was Heavy! A teammate who he will have to see every day at work for at least, the next four years of their remaining contracts. 

This wasn’t the Outback where no law could impose with who could you smash your back out or not. 

This was the United States of America where two men giving each other a gobby were considered bloody mental. Not to mention what the Russian would have done to him if he had gotten even a hint of what had passed through his head. 

Meanwhile, Heavy concluded his story none the wiser and after a couple of seconds, he frowned confused at not getting any reaction from his teammate. His first assumption was that the Australian had fallen asleep while he had been speaking, but with a simple glance at him, that option was quickly rejected. Sniper’s eyes were wide open, riveted on him and hollow as a corpse. 

The giant’s frown of bafflement became a concerned one. Why was he staring at him with that expression? Was he really staring at him? 

In a wishful denial to pass the blame to anyone but him, Heavy turned around to make sure that there wasn’t anything behind him. No monster. No bear. No wolf. No nothing. 

The absence of any terrifying beast behind his back confirmed his initial suspicion. Sniper was staring at him. But why? What part of his story could have horrified him so much? Yes, it was an embarrassing anecdote with some nudity in it but after all they had shared that night, Heavy couldn’t find a single reason that could have triggered that reaction.  

Was the vodka upset his stomach? The Australian had drunk quite a lot too. 

“Sniper, are you okay?” Heavy carefully placed a hand on his side and the other man instantly flinched at the touch. 

It wasn’t the alcohol. It was clear now. It was him. The Russian didn’t know how to feel about it. He didn’t understand what was going or what was happening to his teammate. He only knew that he had apparently done something to provoke such a reaction. 

“I’m okay, Heavy.” Sniper replied trying to cover up his delusional lapse and propped himself up. The world swirled in defiance when he moved but he managed to stabilize himself. 

By turning at the warmth of the bonfire, the Australian tried to avoid eye contact with the bigger man but sensed that compassionate gaze set upon him, awaiting a better explanation. He wouldn’t be able to ignore him for long. He knew it. Heavy deserved some kind of justification for his odd behaviour and it would make it even more suspicious if he didn’t give him one soon. In his current condition, Sniper wasn’t confident he would be able to lie with some reasonable competence. He had never been a good improviser when it came to giving excuses so he opted for a half-truth. 

“I remembered I almost made a very stupid mistake today.” He disclosed very vaguely. 

It was something but not much. 

Heavy still didn’t understand what that had to do with him. Perhaps, it didn’t have to do with him at all. Sniper might have been staring at him without any real reason but he didn’t insist. The Australian had been very forthright in his previous justifications so the gentle giant guessed that there was something too private to share in this case. After all, they hadn’t had a conversation longer than a few minutes until today. He didn’t know if they could consider each other friends. They were definitely keeping many parts of their lives to themselves. They had deliberately avoided mentioning their childhoods or their families in the whole night. 

“Do not worry, Sniper.” Heavy smiled sympathetically. “You will have time to make stupid mistake tomorrow.” 

 _“I bloody hope not.”_  

The anxious chuckle that attempt of joke got for a response definitely killed the mood for the night. The silence that followed after made it impossible to rescue any remains of what joyful spirit they had held during the previous hours. The two teammates, that had seemingly been so close some minutes ago, retracted into their polite yet distant selves and they were left to reflect what a great time they had had together until now. Without friendly chatter to live them up, fatigue caught up with them and after a while, Heavy couldn’t hold back a yawn.  

“We should go to sleep.” He suggested too tired to endure anymore. 

“Good idea. I’ll go to take a leak first.” Sniper wobbly stood up and was painfully reminded of how much he had surpassed his drinking limit. 

Heavy didn’t fully comprehend what the other man had said he wanted to do but he let him go without questioning him. Sniper hadn’t packed his belonging so he assumed he was just going to take a piss. The Russian kept his eyes on him as the other mercenary staggered away from the camp. 

In the darkness of the night and with his member exposed to the elements, Sniper was left with nothing else to do than regret his foolish slip. 

What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking at all. That had been the problem.  

In a subconscious attempt to keep up with the Russian, he had drunk way more than he regularly did. The vodka had hit him at a different pace than beer did and as invested as he had been in their enjoyable conversation, he hadn’t kept track of how many swigs he had taken. The giant’s contagious smile and his ludicrous way of expressing himself hadn’t helped either to keep him in line. 

No! No excuses. There were no excuses. He had been terribly sloppy. 

How had he left his guard down so easily? How had he forgotten where he was and more importantly, with who? For fuck’s sake! He had seen this man crushing skulls with his own hands. He had seen this man mowing down the entire BLU team by himself alone. He had seen this man ambushing, playing strategically, being calm and collected in a barbaric environment that had threatened life in the most gruesome ways. 

Heavy was a strong, smart and amicable man and the Australian should have known by now that was the most dangerous type of person that could be encountered. Despite being incredibly deadly, somehow the Russian had succeeded in making him trust him. 

Bloody hell... See! The gentle giant had already crawled his way into his head. Sniper was feeling guilty for ruining their night with his nonsensical whim and slow reaction time. Worst of all, he would have to return to the camp, sleep alongside him and walked back together to the base tomorrow to prevent the Russian from suspecting anything. 

This was why he preferred living by himself, in the open air or in his van, away from society and without any permanent strings except for his parents. People made life too complicated for his taste. They made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. 

When nothing else was left to drip, Sniper closed his eyes tightly and internally groaned one last time before returning to the campfire. It was what it was. There was no point in blaming himself anymore, it wasn’t going to change the past. He could only learn from his errors and keep them in mind to not repeat them again. 

Once he got back, he found Heavy drinking from his own canteen. He assumed it was water and realized that he hadn’t seen him drinking anything else than vodka in the whole night. Presaging a possible hangover, he opted for being wise and awarded his body some non-alcoholic fluid too. 

Without really talking to each other, both men accommodate their sleeping bags inside the bushcraft shelter. Heavy’s sleeping bag resembled more a blanket sewed together than an actual sleeping bag but it looked fairly warm anyway. Sniper had a moment of doubt when he almost decided against sleeping next to the bigger man but he was so done with the day that he just did as expected. Neither of them removed their shoes, one due to his vast experience sleeping on the snow and the other as a precaution for if he had to make a run for his life. 

The two mercenaries huddled up, back against back, with their bags as pillows and their weapons in front of each other as insurance, knives and guns at close reach. It wasn’t anything personal against the other teammate. It was just their habit when camping outdoors. 

“Good night, Sniper.” 

“Good night, Heavy.” 

After what had happened, Sniper assumed that he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep for the rest of the night but with that huge amount of alcohol in his system and the exhaustion of the long day, he quickly succumbed to slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make the emus Sniper's animal archenemy. Very stereotypical if we take into account the absurd war the Australians declared against those birds. But then, I remembered that there are also feral donkeys in Australia and I found it more ridiculous.
> 
> Heavy's goat trauma is a reference to Poker Night where Heavy explains that his father gave him the choice between learning how to box or how to milk a goat and he chose boxing because goats terrify him.
> 
> Fun fact, Australia started the conversion to the metric system in 1970 and officially passed a law in 1974.
> 
> For anyone who doesn't speak more than one language, onomatopeias change between languages. The dog does 'woof-woof' in English, 'gahf-gahf' in Russian or 'guau-guau' in Spanish. If you see in some future chapters any odd onomatopoeia, it's basically because I didn't doublecheck if they also exist in English. For example, in Spanish you don't do 'Phew', you do 'Bufff'.
> 
> In this story, Sniper is going to be portrayed as bi and Heavy as gay.


	7. The hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a short chapter, I said. This is going to be finished soon, I said.
> 
> Between moving out, pre-period depression and sleep deprivation this chapter has taken more time than I planned. I also usually write them in order, every paragraph following the previous one but this one was a complete mess. I started snippets from the middle, others from the end. Then I had to figure out how to link them together. It's been quite the creative process.
> 
> Anyway, here it is.

A few hours after having gone to sleep, Sniper woke up with a dry mouth and the imperious necessity to empty his bladder again. A little disoriented due to his sleepiness and the last remains of alcohol clouding his mind, he sluggishly struggled to get out of the sleeping bag. Once he managed to stand up, he stopped for a second to acknowledge where he was and realized of something.

Heavy wasn’t breathing and his fingers were caressing the handle of his hunting knife. His eyes were closed and his body seemed relaxed, faking being asleep, but Sniper had the hunch that he wasn’t. Heavy was on the alert, awaiting any sign of imminent attack.

“I need to pee again.” Sniper clarified to his teammate and the Russian hummed some kind of drowsy agreement, pulling away his hand from the knife.

Or Heavy was an astonishing actor or he was sleepier than the Australian had originally assumed. If there was something he knew for sure was that this giant wasn’t an exceptional liar so it had to be the later.

Not giving much of a thought to the other man’s behaviour, Sniper did his necessities and quickly returned to the camp. The bonfire had slowly died off during the night and it was really noticeable the temperature difference between their handcraft shelter and the rest of the snowy forest. Fortunately, there was almost no wind. Sniper hated the icy breeze. Truth be told, he hated all types of winds. Having to compensate for any air current during a shot was a pain in the ass.

When Sniper snuggled back into his sleeping bag, Heavy shifted a little bit, subconsciously making space for him. An instant later, he seemed to fall asleep again and his breathing became calm and deep, feeling genuine this time. The sharpshooter drank some water and eagerly followed him into the sweet land of dreams.

\---

Less than two hours later, Sniper was awakened by movement and noise behind his back. With his survival instincts kicking in, he tried to reach for his kukri and had to struggle against his sleeping bag to get his hands out. That hindrance was enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone this night. He was sleeping outdoors with someone else, with... Heavy, yes! He came to a halt before he could pick up the weapon and accidentally attack him or give the wrong impression.

“Going to toilet.” The Russian announced groggily. He had turned at the Australian and was watching him with a drowsy expression, yet more alert than he let on. His other arm was extended backward and his hand was crawling towards his own knife. However, from his position, Sniper could not see that.

Still tense but less alarmed the Australian retreated his arms into the warmth of his sleeping bag and Heavy decided against grabbing any of his weapons. He finished worming his way out of the sack and went to relieve himself in the nature.

In the meanwhile, Sniper didn’t try to take a snooze. Instead, he pondered about how alike they had both reacted to being startled in their sleep. On this occasion, he felt more refreshed than before and could realize now that he would have expected a less vigilant attitude from a bloke as massive as Heavy. As a hired assassin, Sniper had killed more than one man in their slumber and had gotten to discover several patterns about how people slept. Bulky strong men tended to ignore the world around them, being incredibly self-confident that nothing could ever harm them, not even when they were in their most vulnerable. By what he had witnessed, the Russian clearly didn’t belong to that category.

Heavy had reacted like a man who’s very aware of the hundred faceless enemies that would very like him dead and the thousand dangers surrounding him that were impossible to predict. He had reacted like a mercenary who has always in mind that predator could easily become prey and that those two concepts weren’t mutually exclusive.

Heavy had reacted just like him. He had reacted like a hunted hunter.

But who was after him and why?

No idea.

At least, the question of ‘For how long?’ wasn’t an enigma like the others. Sniper could infer that for quite long already. A decade must have minimum passed if he had interiorized his reflexes so deeply that he could reach for his weapons while being more dozed off than conscious. The sharpshooter knew what he was talking about. He had lived through that same adaptation process.

A couple of minutes later, Heavy returned to his side and Sniper opted for resuming his rest. These weren’t the ideal hours to be hatching theories about his teammate’s past. It must have been very early in the morning and his eyelids still felt pretty heavy on him. Besides, he didn’t really have anything to gain from guessing right or wrong. Only more bias. It wasn’t worth losing sleep for it, not even a minute. However, in the middle of drifting off again, he wondered how the Russian could act so wholeheartedly under a similar hardship he had come to call his lifestyle.

\---

As their bodies became close to achieving their essential quota of sleep, both mercenaries grew more sensitive to each other presence. Whenever one of the two would move a little or mumbled something, the teammate leaning against them would accidentally wake up. In return, the sudden reaction of the startled man would also alarm the unintentional culprit. To prevent any situation from escalating, they would exchange a couple of words to appease their paranoia and go back to sleep shortly after.

The two hunters repeated this cycle a half dozen times and as sunrise approached, they stopped diving for their weapons as their first instinct, trusting the killer behind their back.

Not very long after the first rays of sunlight bathed their faces, they silently decided to abandon their cosy cocoons and start their Sunday morning together. While they feasted on moose meat as the night before, no vodka this time, they mentally recapitulated about the curious facts they had learnt about each other during that night.

Against his initial misconception, Sniper had discovered that Heavy didn’t snore. Contrarily, Heavy had found out that Sniper did snore but only when his chin rested pressed against his chest. To silent him, the Russian had poked his exposed neck and the lanky man had shrunk into his sleeping bag like a snail retreating into its shell. Quite comically, the Australian had woken up a second later at the noise of his own involuntary whine. The bigger man had had to contain a chuckle at that reaction. He hadn’t been very successful at it but Sniper had been too drowsy to hold it against him or even understand what had happened.

If asked, the Australian wouldn’t have been able to recall that event but he would have definitely mentioned another incident. At the edge of nodding off, Heavy’s whole body regularly convulsed. The first time that Sniper had felt it, it had absolutely scared the crap out of him, almost making him jump to his feet. He had also been in the process of drifting off and in his foggy mind, such a temblor had resembled a goddamn earthquake. Fearing the aftershocks, he had gripped the fabric of his sack and grouchily implored to Mother Nature not to bloody unleash such cataclysm in the middle of this icy hell. That this place was already a nightmare as it was. After awaiting the tremors that had never come, Sniper’s initial panic had faded out and he had managed to slip back into sleep.

As a matter of fact, Heavy had suffered other spasms during that night but after the first time, Sniper had simply throbbed in synchrony with him, undisturbed.

\---

With only the slightest ounce of loitering, both men readied their backpacks with that interiorized habit that only comes with experience and began their hike back to the base.

It didn’t take more than a couple of miles for Sniper to notice how the additional weight he was carrying was considerably slowing him down. Despite hauling the double than him, Heavy didn’t seem affected at all. The sharpshooter presumed that daily dragging around a 300-pound minigun must have helped him develop a lot of endurance.

After a while, Sniper felt frustrated with himself due to his hindered pace. He appreciated that his teammate hadn’t made any comment, not even his face displayed a trace of annoyance, but that same forbearance also infuriated him. He was an expert survivor back in Australia and here he felt like a rookie just by walking. This environment was completely foreign to him but that’s why he was out in the woods, right? To challenge himself. He was one of the best bloody shots of his country, he was a remarkable tracker and a better hunter. Cold weather wasn’t going to be his Achilles heel.

He Will Not Allow It!

With renewed determination, Sniper forced himself to speed up and the other man matched his pace without questioning. At this rate, he was going to sleep like a rock that night.

After an hour or so, Heavy requested him to deviate from their current path. He wanted to make a detour through an area near the river to check on several animal traps that he had placed there. He didn’t voice it out but Sniper could sense his teammate’s heedfulness about the matter. The gentle giant didn’t want to leave any possible catch to starve to death or fell victim to the predators. Sniper wouldn’t have liked it either.

It didn’t take long to arrive at the spot Heavy had described. Already from some strides away, they spotted a rabbit hanging from a wire, futility squirming. The Russian eyed his teammate and without exchanging a single word, they agreed to free it. With the huge amount of meat that they were transporting and the more they had been forced to leave behind, killing the rodent would have been totally unnecessary and very disrespectful. The two hunters watched the rabbit ran with a slight limp back into the forest and Heavy proceeded to remove the rest of the traps that he had set up.

Sniper was quite impressed to discover the large number of squirrel traps the Russian had planted. He had dismantled more than twenty already and the sharpshooter couldn’t but to wonder how long it had taken the other man to prepare them all. Squirrel traps required a considerately steady hand to assemble and if successful, they only provided a very small reward. In other words, they usually weren’t worth the effort.

Somehow reading Sniper’s thoughts through his pensive expression, Heavy justified himself with a shrug.

“I like very much squirrels.”

It took the sharpshooter a second to reply back.

“At least, they’re better than rats.” He commented half-serious half-joking.

“Da. But sauce makes big difference. Try rats with honey. Everything good with honey.” He recommended as if they were discussing regular recipes for regular men. “Except goat. Goat cheese with honey, delicious. Goat with honey, not delicious.”

“How so?” He cocked an eyebrow and gave him a little lopsided smile at the peculiar remark. Was this another episode of the goat trauma compilation?

“Goats not good. Not alive, not dead, not for dinner. Especially not for dinner.”

Sniper restrained a chuckle. It looked like Heavy _really_ despised goats. Perhaps, he should have inquired about the origins of his hatred yesterday night when they were drunk and more talkative. Well... Too late. It didn’t feel like the appropriate moment to ask right now. Better not to accidentally anger the passionate mercenary holding a knife. Just in case.

When the Russian finally turned around, Sniper allowed himself to smile fully. It looked like he’ll have to live with another odd mystery about this mountain of a man.

\---

They didn’t take a break to have lunch. They just ate their sandwiches as they walked. Despite his muscles asking for some rest, Sniper chose not to grant them the whim. He knew that if he broke the rhythm, even only for a couple of minutes, it would be almost impossible to regain it. The workout was uplifting his mood and didn’t want to disappoint himself by being self-indulgent. Besides, they were in a tied schedule. If they wanted to arrive at the base before sunset, they couldn’t afford to stop.

Both mercenaries hardly spoke to each other during the whole day but on this occasion, it didn’t feel uncomfortable like the night before. They were partners in this hike back home and there was no necessity to force a meaningless conversation that would break the peaceful silence. Time to time, they would look at each other and with a simple facial expression, they would communicate everything they needed to say.

For most of the evening, they occupied their minds with unrelated thoughts or sometimes, nothing at all, letting the calm nature embraced them. At some point, Sniper started whistling. Every now and then, he would falter. Coordinating his breathing under mild exercise wasn’t as easy as it seemed but Heavy enjoyed his sprightly melodies from another hemisphere. He would have whistled along but he was terrible at it. The Australian didn’t notice but the gentle giant observed him with great attention for a long while.

During that weekend, Heavy had been proved wrong. Sniper wasn’t an apathetic person. For many months, the Russian had believed that his teammate was an aloof dull man. The Australian had generally been so quiet in their battle planning meetings. At being addressed, he had always been polite but his replies had been collected, brief and rational. His body language had stated at all times that he was here to do his job and getting to personally know his team wasn’t part of the requirements. Being so far away from his teammates during combat and living by his own in his van hadn’t helped either. Heavy hadn’t been sure that the Australian even had a personality until the Sandwich War but yesterday night, the man had opened up to him.

The Russian could see now that maybe Sniper wasn’t the type of person who would seek other people’s company but given the right conditions, he could display his full palette of emotions. He could be funny and loud. He could be passionate and emphatic. He could be proud of his achievements but without being excessively arrogant about it. He could show the wisdom and sharp-wittedness that thrived from overcoming adversity and spending a lot of time alone. Sniper was a complex man with many layers to be explored and Heavy liked this new teammate way more than the husk of the old one.

The big guy still didn’t have the most remote idea of what caused Sniper to freeze the night before but he settled for not to overthink it. There were still many months to learn to understand this solitary man. The mercenaries of RED died and killed for each other every day. The least Heavy could do was to get to know the teammate that, with his extraordinary skill, kept them safe from the far distance. Right?

\---

As Sniper had shared earlier with Heavy, they also planned their route to pass through the forest clearing where the Australian had set up his own traps the day before. He hadn’t placed as many as Heavy so it was way quicker to disable them all. Despite using less of them, Sniper had been more ‘fortunate’. He had caught two rabbits. They released one of them but they were forced to keep the other. It was already dead. This second one hadn’t been so ‘lucky’ at triggering the trap. The wire had wrapped around his neck, hanging it instantly.

Sniper examined for a couple of seconds his only hunting piece of the weekend and stashed the rodent afterward. It was a strange feeling. The day before, he had been quite eager to kill anything to prove himself that this excursion hadn’t been a waste of his time and now, during these last hours, he had wished for his traps to fail. One rabbit less in this forest wasn’t going to make a difference but with the change of circumstances, the corpse of this animal had become an annoyance to take care of.

He already had enough meat to last for a couple of months and on top of that, he hadn’t been the one to hunt any of it. He would have to decide if he wanted to keep the rabbit or sell it with some of the moose next weekend at the closest butcher. He obviously didn’t need the money he might get from it. He would just be content knowing that these animals had been given a proper end at the stomach of some local.

\---

At nightfall, the duo of hunters arrived at the base. They walked together up to Sniper’s van and just when he was going to give Heavy his farewells, he read on the man an indecisive expression. The gentle giant seemed like he wanted to ask something prickly and was looking for the right words.

The sharpshooter frowned a little at the behaviour. Heavy had been quite straight-forward until now. What did he want to say? Not being able to think of anything else except one single issue, Sniper opted for saving him the trouble.

He must have gotten the wrong idea when the Russian had said ‘That bag is for you.’. He had assumed that Heavy was giving away part of his hunt when the man must have actually meant that the bag was his to carry. This misunderstanding stung a little but it was fair. Sniper hadn’t participated in the kill. Now, he was glad he had gotten that rabbit.

He sighed in resignation and pulled out the sack of moose meat, offering it back to the rightful owner.

“Niet, niet. You carried meat, you keep meat. It is yours, Sniper.” The gentle giant immediately refused to take it and effusively waved his arms in rejection at the confusion. The Australian double-frowned at him but didn’t fight back the gift that he had already taken for granted.

While wondering what exactly the Russian’s enigmatic face had meant to communicate, the Australian put back the sack in his backpack. When he stood up to his complete height, he encountered Heavy’s gloved hand extended towards him. He looked confused at the gesture but he nonetheless accepted it with his matching-gloved one.

“It is been good weekend. Good weather, good food, good company.” Heavy said.

Sniper’s expression relaxed and he sincerely assented a second later.

“Yes, it has been.”

However, when the Russian kept prolonging the handshake, he suddenly figured out what the other man had been debating to ask.

 _“No. Don’t dare. Don’t bloody dare.”_ He internally appealed in anticipation of what those earnest eyes augured.

Heavy stopped the shaking but didn’t let go of his hand. He smiled at him with an affable grin and unleashed the feared question into the air.

“Do you want to go hunting together another weekend?”

Sniper’s initial impulse was to decline the offer but a disarray of arguments clashed on his mind, preventing him from it.

The first thought he successfully pulled apart from the rest was a reluctant confession. Against his initial expectations, he had to admit that he hadn’t hated each minute of the experience. In fact, he had particularly enjoyed his time with Heavy. Despite screwing up at the last minute yesterday night, he had enjoyed their enthusiastic bonfire party and their comfortable silence on the way back to the base. It had been almost a year since he had been able to be the hunter Mundy, instead of the teammate Sniper, and he could feel now, that he had really needed the little break.

Before he could wallow more in those mushy weak emotions, his cautious side took over and reminded him of how he had almost put himself in a very dangerous situation for thinking with his dick instead of his head. Sniper went over each one of the miscalculations he had made around Heavy. He went over everything he had shared that, maybe, he should have kept to himself. He had misinterpreted or underestimated the Russian more times than he should have and nothing assured him that he wouldn’t do it again. But that wasn’t the most concerning issue. The most concerning issue was, that up to what he had seen until now, Sniper could say that he respected the man, even like him as a person, and that made him feel uneasy. He tolerated people. He didn’t like people. Not usually. Only very occasionally and that induced him with the urge to push him away. He feared he would let his guard down again and that time would be the fatal last.

However, if he pushed him away, he would lose the opportunity to learn from him. Heavy was clearly more familiarized with this weather than him and it was always faster to progress with an experienced teacher than by trial and error. There were thousands of tips to decipher that would take him years to figure it out just on his own. Instead, if he went hunting with him a couple of more times, he would probably advance more than if he had gone alone for a dozen weekends. Winter wasn’t going to wait for him and this was the moment to take a risky decision if he wanted to continue being the exceptional sharpshooter, hunter and professional he had strived to become.

Sniper reached a conclusion.

He will learn as much as he could from Heavy and distance himself after they move to a new base.

“Yeah, why not?” Sniper accepted with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just write 435 words for Sniper's internal debate? This is getting out of hand.


	8. The snowstorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2000 something words I said.  
> 3000 something words I meant.
> 
> God... And not a single dialogue... I don't know how I managed to get this out. Apologize in advance for the heavy chapter.
> 
> Just for the record, Medic fangirls. Don't kill me, please. This is just Sniper's impressions.

Heavy and Sniper didn’t go hunting together the ensuing week. 

They both privately decided that it was too soon to repeat the experience. The weather forecast hadn’t encouraged it either. The alleged cloudy weekend had turned out to include some feeble snow on Saturday night and  intermittent rain on Sunday. The Australian was glad that they hadn’t even debated about going. Besides, he already had had plans for those days.  

He had driven to the nearest town and gotten ridden of two-thirds of the moose meat. One of the butchers he had visited had refused to take the pieces at noticing his foreign accent. If it had been out of mistrust for the origins or quality of the product, Sniper would have understood but it hadn’t. It had just been plainly xenophobia. It wasn’t the first time some of the locals drastically changed their attitude the moment he opened his mouth but he opted to not let it bother him. He had long stopped caring about what wankers thought of him, of his image or of his way of living. However, for once, he imagined how these same people would treat Demo or Heavy who visibly didn’t fit the American stereotype of their perfect citizen. In his way out, Sniper casually spat at the window door of the ratbag butcher and searched for another one who would be able to see the ripper deal he was bringing to their shop. 

In the end, he hadn’t been paid totally fair for the meat but he was satisfied enough. He might have gotten a little more by barging with that stern businesswoman but he considered that he had already spent enough time on this quest and didn’t feel like it was worth investing more. He was currently earning more money than he knew what to do with it and a dozen bucks felt insignificant next to the seven digits of his bank account. He had only wanted this meat not to go to waste and now, his part was done. 

That night, Sniper ate for dinner the unlucky rabbit and used honey as condiment at Heavy’s suggestion. He might have added too much but he enjoyed it nevertheless. With his mouth full of a particular sweet bite, he smiled a little and had to concede that the big guy had been right. He should cook with honey more often. It was an easy product to find and literally never expired. 

\--- 

The week that followed was an ugly one. The temperatures dropped drastically and it half-rained, half-snowed most of the days. The sun was only visible for a couple of hours on Friday and with the match at its juncture, the mercenaries weren’t able to properly appreciate that precious gift.  

When Heavy approached him after the battle, Sniper readied himself to accept an unpromising, most surely awful outdoor plan for the incoming days. However, the bigger man had come to him with a different announcement. He explained that Medic required his assistance with one of his projects and that unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to go hunting with him that weekend. Sniper nodded in secret relief and offered some polite words of understanding. 

Although, he didn’t let that naïve phrasing and friendly tone deceived him. He knew what ‘help Doktor with experiment’ really entailed. It was a very well-known fact that the big guy was the favourite guinea pig of the German quack.  

At that point in time, Sniper had a better idea of Heavy’s intellect and he couldn’t begin to comprehend how the gentle giant could let that psycho slit him from top to bottom so willingly. It had made sense while he had believed that the Russian was a brainless mountain of walking muscle but not anymore. Was the man that afraid of what Medic would do to him if he refused? Was he allowing it to buy Medic’s favour and in return, get special attention on the battlefield? Or had Sniper misjudged Medic too, as he had initially done with Heavy?

No. It couldn’t possibly be the last option. Sniper still vividly remembered his ÜberCharge surgery, primarily, because the whacko hadn’t used anaesthesia on him during the procedure. The madman that dared to call himself their doctor had cut open his chest and held out his own beating living heart in front of his eyes while rambling sinisterly cheerful about other non-related medical stuff. There hadn’t been any trace of professionalism or patient concern or even humanity in the whole session. Medic had treated him like a simple test subject. Like a kid with aspirations of scientist playing with a nameless replaceable mouse. The Australian hadn’t been more terrified of someone in his whole bloody life. 

While he trained to move and quickly aim on the snow that weekend, Sniper found himself, on more than one occasion, scoping in the direction of the infirmary. He fruitlessly tried to get a peek of what was going in the lab, what nightmarish experiments was Medic performing on the Russian. He told himself that it wasn’t concern for his teammate, only curiosity to understand the bigger picture. 

\--- 

If anyone from the team had gotten even an inkling of what had awaited them for the days preceding Halloween, they would have made up the best excuse of their lives to be as far away as possible from the base. Faking their deaths wouldn’t have been an overreaction. 

Sniper, like everyone else who had spent more than five minutes in the same room as Soldier, knew who Merasmus was or at least, who Soldier claimed Merasmus to be. However, no one, not even the boisterous American, had expected the wacky wizard to show up the week of Halloween and subjected them to the most bizarre magical fight that could have ever been conceived in the history of battles. 

The nutty magician had cursed them with big heads, small heads, bird heads, bomb heads. He had deactivated gravity and turned the air so thick that they could swim in it. He had granted them temporal superspeed, invulnerability and crits. He had forced them to dance at the rhythm of his freakish music and to play hide and seek with him. He had made bombs rain from the sky and opened portals to Hell thanks to the power of a magical talking book.  

Worst of all, the mercenaries had had to intermittently join forces with the enemy team to be able to defeat the wizard. One moment the ceasefire was on, the other, it was every man for himself. They had completely lost track of who was friend and foe and the Administrator hadn’t intervened at all. Some suspected that she had expressively orchestrated Merasmus’s visit just for her twisted personal entertainment. 

That Halloween event had changed the team’s mindset. Not only regarding the boundaries of reality and magic in general but also about the perception they had of Soldier. Except for Demoman who had met the wizard before, everyone had assumed that the figure of Merasmus was an imaginary character from one of Soldier’s delusional tales or in the best of the cases, a quirky roommate who had actually existed. Nobody had been expecting the helmet man to be narrating the accurate truth about the immortal wizard. 

It made Sniper reconsider everything he had overheard the crazy American vociferate. Perhaps, he had truly flown to Poland and fought the Nazis as a one-man army. Perhaps, he had truly rediscovered the art of rocket-jumping after the technique had become obsolete due to the invention of the stairs. Perhaps, he had truly killed Hitler and both sides had covered it up because well... recognizing Soldier as the responsible of that deed would have made any self-respecting country look very, very laughable. 

If only one-tenth of what he claimed was true, Soldier was quite an impressive man. Only if anything else was true, of course. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. But after such terrible days, the Australian wasn’t in the mood of giving him a second chance. 

The Halloween week had been particularly horrible for Sniper. Not only because it had turned upside down his usual fighting style but also because the heating system of his van had started malfunctioning. The Australian wasn’t sure if it was just that the weather was colder than the previous month or not, but heat was leaking out of the vehicle faster than it could be replaced. The thermostat was turned at its maximum power but it still wasn’t able to match the desirable temperature that had been set up for. Sniper began wearing gloves, jacket and double layer of socks inside of his home. It felt so dreary to return to his dear sanctuary after an exhausting day at the battlefield and not be able to get the cold out of his bones. 

On an incidental encounter of Friday’s match, Sniper told Heavy that his van was having problems and that he would have to bring it to a mechanic as soon as possible, which it translated to postponing their hunting weekend again. Without inquiring about the specific issue, Heavy suggested to let Engineer take a look at it but Sniper refused before the big guy could even finish the sentence.

The last time Sniper had allowed the cordial Texan near his camper, the man had ‘upgraded’ the vehicle to an extreme point beyond recognition. He had substituted its regular engine for a nuclear fusion one, turned the dashboard into a control panel more complex than a pilot’s cabinet, made the walls resistant to bullets, rockets, explosions, floods, chemical clouds, radioactivity and ‘hypothetical’ disintegration rays. He had installed two mobile sentries on the sides, an intercontinental satellite-guided rocket launcher station in the ceiling, heat lasers in the front and back, a harvester shredder in the bumper and other gadgets Sniper had been too horrified to pay attention to. On top of that, the shorter mercenary had given him a tour through his newly ‘renovated’ home with a smile from ear to ear, totally failing to understand that this wasn’t what Sniper had meant by ‘Could ya check for me the engine oil?”. That day, the Australian had learnt that, despite being apparently the most normal one, Engineer was as insane as everyone else on the team. 

So no, he was definitely not going to ask Engineer for help. The hospitable genius had restored the van to its original self after being politely requested to but the Australian wasn’t going to risk it a second time. He would find someone else. He had already made a list of the mechanics around the area and would visit the most promising ones during the weekend.

Everything was under control. He had a solid plan.

When he was allowed to speak again, Heavy also shared with him that the team was throwing a party that same night. He mentioned Halloween decorations and free alcohol and food, although he might have emphasized too much on the food part. He didn’t directly invite him but he awaited an inquiry for more information to do so that Sniper didn’t award him.

The sharpshooter wasn’t particularly feeling very social that day and had other more pressing concerns that monopolized his whole attention. Like his van, the cold weather, where the bloody hell had Merasmus hid this time, that BLU Demoman just some strides away, his van, that puff sound that resembled a Spy’s uncloaking, his van, that unidentified Soldier rocket-jumping at the other side of that wall, his van. Had he mentioned his van already?

Sniper knew he had been a little rude with Heavy that day. He shouldn’t have used that short downtime for that matter. He should have approached him at the end of the match and talked with him with the cordiality he deserved. But he didn’t. He didn’t even see Heavy’s lips flattening into a thin line and the grunt he contained to his total disinterested because Sniper had already looked away, paranoid of spies being around.

That night, while trying to listen to the radio over the wind clashing against his van, Sniper regretted not taking Heavy’s invitation. Or Demo’s or Scout’s. Because they had also blatantly insisted him to join their common plans. Having to endure his teammates' company in exchange for free drinks and a warm room didn’t sound like such a bad deal anymore. If during that moment of indecision, Heavy had knocked on his door and formally invited him, Sniper would have followed him in a heartbeat. But the gentle giant never came for him and he was left to stare at the base, watching the lights of the game room switch through the colours of the rainbow. Thankfully, he was too far away to hear the music.

To bite down the bitterness that he didn’t want to admit from where it was seeping, the Australian attempted to convince himself that suffering through the cold was part of the adaptation process to this weather. That going to a party he wouldn’t have gone otherwise only to avoid the freezing temperatures meant being weak, giving up on his progress. Sniper wasn’t sure if he completely believed himself or not because, in the end, he turned on the engine of his van and drove away from the base.

\---

After parking the night before in front of the closest automobile repair shop of his list, Sniper made sure to be the first client of the day. Unfortunately, his punctuality wasn’t rewarded because the chief technician could only give him a vague diagnosis and an unacceptable deadline for the repair. He couldn’t just let them take his van for two weeks that could easily extend into more than a month. Unsatisfied with the first mechanic, Sniper thanked the man anyway and headed for the second stop on his tour.

He kept going from one to the following next until he obtained the most thorough, direct and realistic evaluation he thought he could possibly get. The old bloke, who Sniper had more than a little trouble to understand his thick pronunciation, explained to him that his van was simply not designed for this cold weather. The walls didn’t have any type of insulation and the heating system was too rudimentary to keep up with any temperatures lower than ‘a chilly spring’. In his insistence, the man confirmed him that if he got some parts shipped from the original manufacturer and costume-made the rest, he could acclimatize the vehicle. However, he was also honest with him and admitted that by how much money and time it would cost him, it was almost better to just buy a new one.

Sniper sighed in resignation and offered the man a hundred dollars for his sincere opinion. With a pat in the back and a smile with more than one a hole on it, the rustic mechanic wished him the best and the sharpshooter returned to his van with a tough dilemma between his hands.

He could perfectly afford to buy a new camper but he didn’t feel that it was worth it for just a couple of months. He had spent his whole life living with the minimum necessary and owning two vehicles for the same purpose wasn’t something he had ever considered doing. He could just get rid of the current one, get a brand-new model, fully equipped, with more space and facilities. He could but at the same time, he couldn’t. He felt like it was too soon to replace the van. He felt like it was unfair for his loyal camper that had served him well until now. However, deep down, Sniper knew the real reason for his excuses. He didn’t want to lose the last reminder of home that he had left.

Sniper rubbed his forehead, reviewing his options. He couldn’t live outdoors in his current van. He couldn’t fix the vehicle quickly enough. He wasn’t going to buy a new van. He actually could move to his room at the base but only over his dead body, he would really consider doing that so there was only one choice left.

He would have to park the van inside the base’s garage.

Engineer had unofficially claimed it for his projects but as far as Sniper remembered, Medic’s stolen ambulance was still there. If he cordially asked the Texan, he saw no reason for his teammate to refuse. The garage would probably not be as warm as the rest of the base but it must surely have to offer more shelter than none. It was worth a try.

Alright. He had a plan. A displeasing one but a workable plan.

\---

Sniper should have talked with Engineer on Sunday but he didn’t. When he arrived at the base that evening, it was dark, foggy and snowing. He had been driving very carefully for hours due to the bad visibility and had no motivation left to walk the unavoidable distance to the man’s workshop so he postponed his mission for the next day.

On Monday, Sniper woke up a little early and caught the tinkerer aside before the match. As expected, Engineer didn’t oppose his request but let him know that he was currently using all the space available and that he would clear it out for him during the next weekend. Sniper opted to not press him about the matter. He feared that if he seemed very insistent, the shorter man would inquire about the reason for his particular urge. The last thing he needed was his kind-hearted teammate trying to surprise him by ‘upgrading’ his van again. He also didn’t want to admit to his face that he didn’t trust him anymore around any of his technological possessions.

The days went by in an excruciatingly slow pace and Sniper noticed himself becoming more lethargic at each morning. The tips of his fingers and toes achieved permanently frigidness and he missed more shots than he dared to admit. He was turning numb, physically and emotionally and every minute spent on the base, before or after a match, was a pleasure and a torture. A pleasure because of the delightful warmth and sleepiness that arouse on him. A torture because of its alluring power that he had to fight to resist. On top of that, he began drinking before going to bed. He knew it wasn’t the best idea but the alcohol mitigated the sensation of cold and helped him sleep better.

He might have made it until the weekend if a nasty snowstorm hadn’t set upon the base on Thursday. It started like any mild one they have experienced before but by dinner time, it progressed into an aggressive phenomenon of imposing reverence. Not being able to ignore the screeching sounds and deafening gale, Sniper ended up drinking more than he should have. With no interest to entertain himself for a couple of more hours, he retired early that evening. As he bundled himself up with his lovely blanket, the Australian wished with all of his might for this suffering to be over soon.

He never expected Mother Nature to end it for him ahead of time.

\---

When Sniper woke up in the middle of the night in the most extreme coldness he had ever experienced, he should have known that there was something wrong going. When he tried to stand up to his feet and his body straggled completely out of coordination, he should have realized that it wasn’t normal despite any heavy somnolence. However, his mind was as impaired as his body and the warning signs completely eluded him.

With the blanket as a cape, he staggered to the thermostat, leaning against the wall to keep his balance. It took him a couple of seconds to acknowledge that the light of the apparatus was off. He groggily played with it for several minutes. Turning it off and on, increasing and decreasing the temperature, placing his ear against it in an attempt to discern its characteristic working hum. He even slapped it a couple of times not really thinking of what he was going to accomplish with that. All to no avail.

Acting as an automaton, Sniper lurched to the driver’s seat and ignited the engine of his van several times, believing that, for some reason, it might help. He had a hard time just by fishing up the keys. He could hardly feel his fingers.

The pinnacle of stupid ideas came to him at catching sight of the base through his windscreen.

Fuck it! He was getting out of here! He will sleep in the living room of the base.

Without remembering to put on his shoes, Sniper turned the knob of his door and it violently slammed open. A freezing blast almost threw him back and snow began invading the entrance of his van. With a sudden change of heart at being faced with such appalling weather, the Australian instinctively reacted by closing the door again. He got his socks wet on the process and took him an exaggerated amount of time for that simple task. His usual strength was of no use if he couldn’t keep a stable posture to oppose the wind.

Accepting his awful faith for the rest of the night, Sniper tightly wrapped the blanket around him. He had a plan. A shitty one but a plan and he had no other choice than to stick to it until the weekend.

At least, he had stopped shivering. That had to be positive, right?

He dragged himself again to the back of the vehicle and collapsed on his mattress, giving up on struggling anymore. As he began drifting off again, an intangible companion joined him in bed. Hypothermia curled around his body and with the snowstorm acting as a lullaby, it inexorably swayed him towards a cold silent death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, ha! Enjoy the nasty cliffhanger.
> 
> I want your opinions, ladies and gentlemen!
> 
> PS: Some time ago I read on another fic that Soldier was a suspected culprit of Hitler's death. I liked the headcanon so much that I decided to mention it in this story. I'm sorry I don't remember the name of the other fic or I would have given the proper acknowledgments.


End file.
